


Pumpkin and Honey Bunny

by blades and arrows (oh_THAT_girl)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bromance to Romance, Bucky Barnes handles this surprisingly well, Clint Barton is a Disaster, Established Relationship, Fluff, Just bros being bros, M/M, Mature tag for eventual violence, Oh yes, Steve and Tony like to meddle, Subtle is not in Tony Starks vocabulary, Tony ships it hard as hell, all of the pop culture references, and also profanity because we're all adult here for the most part., but so many feels you guys, it's becoming a serious problem, minimal angst, there will be smut, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_THAT_girl/pseuds/blades%20and%20arrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is hurt and offended that Barnes has been watching movies without him. </p>
<p>He thought they were bros.</p>
<p>Bros check each other out all the time, right? Right. Just two dudes openly and shamelessly flirting with each other, it happens all the time. No biggie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These two, I swear. 
> 
> I don't know how I stumbled upon this ship, but I am so happy that it has completely consumed my life. They're just too much fun.
> 
> We aren't a big ship, but we are strong!
> 
> Anyway, have fun my lovely lovies, and know that Kudos power my cold black heart.
> 
> Also, this will be entirely written on my phone and without a beta, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Descend into Winterhawk Hell with me my pretties, I promise you won't be alone.

For the record, let it be known that contrary to whatever anyone else has to say about the subject, Clint Barton did have some semblance of patience. It wasn't much, but it was there, and Bucky fucking Barnes seems to be trying his absolutely damnedest to see how thin he could spread it.

"It's just shampoo, Barnes," Clint whined, "Just pick one that smells nice and let's GO already."

Barnes rolls his eyes, shooting him a rather impressive bitch face — and if Clint didn't already know better, he would've sworn Barnes and Rogers were actual brothers — before going back to read the shampoo label.

"But what does Swagger even smell like, and why would you spend all this money when a bar of soap costs a dollar and does the same exact thing?"

"Oh my god, you're KILLING me, Barnes."

Clint reaches over and grabs a bar of Irish Spring off the shelf and throws it in the red cart, pointedly ignoring Barnes' patented Winter Soldier Death Glare before heading down the aisle.

How he got roped into taking the Blast From the Past to Target, he will never know. This is all Starks fault, probably. Or Steve's. Better yet, he's fairly certain that this is all a huge conspiracy concocted by the meddling Super Boyfriends to have some time to themselves. Just because Clint took it upon himself to show Barnes the ropes of this century, didn't make him his keeper.

He was just being a good bro.

"You know," Barnes drawls as he finally falls into step with Clint, "I do believe that Steve Rogers, my best friend and your fearless leader, gave you Starks credit card to take me out and get me anything I wanted."

"Did—" Clint stops in his tracks as Bucky continues ambling along, "Did you just fucking quote Pulp Fiction to me?"

Bucky turns around and shoots him a smarmy grin that absolutely did not make the bottom of Clint's stomach hit the floor, "Check out the big brains on Barton."

"I demand to know who else you've been watching movies with," Clint sputters once his brain clicked back online, "I am hurt and offended that you've been catching up on pop culture without me. I thought we were bros."

And Barnes, the bastard, just shoots him a shrug and half a smirk before replying, "Oh, be cool Honey Bunny."

Clint narrows his eyes as Bucky saunters off, and if his eyes trailed down the expanse of his back, lingering momentarily at the way his modern cut jeans clung sinfully to his hips, well, far be it from Clint to deny himself a spectacular view.

Clint totally understands where Steve was coming from when he would brag nostalgically about how Barnes was a lady killer back in the day. The man knew he was attractive, all broad shoulders and bedroom eyes, and even after all the guy has been thru with Hydra, in spite of coming into his own for the first time in 70 years, there is an easy confidence in the way he holds himself and Clint could respect that.

He respects Barnes, which is why he was going to take those giddy school girl feelings that flutter around in his gut and lock them away in the box labeled Do Not Open Under Any Circumstance and keep the relationship strictly platonic. Just because Clint was queer as hell, and just because Barnes flirts with reckless abandon, it didn't mean he was going to jeopardize their growing friendship.

He likes Barnes. When Steve first brought him back to the tower, Clint had a hard time reconciling the shell of a man that had all but clung to Steve with the Bucky Barnes he had heard so many stories about. Clint recognized the wild distrust in his eyes, much like a feral animal pacing a cage, and knew enough to give the man his space. He'd seen the news, he knew what Barnes was capable of, what he had been thru, and Clint was having a hard enough time holding himself together, putting on a show for the benefit of everyone else.

Barnes had spent all of his time on Steve's floor for weeks, to the point that sometimes Clint forgot he even was at the tower. So when he had unexpectedly found him at his perch on the roof, it had thrown him off and for the first time in his life, he didn't know what to say.

"Couldn't sleep," Barnes supplied for him, with a small wave of his hand gesturing around his temples, his sunken eyes remained fixed towards Brooklyn.

They sat there all night, Clint making small talk to fill the silence between them, and by the time the sun had risen over the skyline, the haunted look in his eyes had all but vanished, and for the first time Clint truly saw him as Bucky Barnes and not the Winter Solider.

They had started unofficially meeting at the roof after that, just two insomniacs and the lights of New York City, and Clint had begun to look forward to their nighttime ritual, because Barnes was funny as shit. His dry sense of humor and endless wit meshed well with Clint's near constant observational commentary, and when Steve found them both hanging upside down by their ankles one morning, tossing pennies into a coffee mug, it was the first time he had seen the good Captain genuinely smile since before D.C.

Clint Barton made a friend, then he had to fuck it all up and catch feelings. Kate was right, he's a human disaster.

"Holy shit, when did condoms become so damn expensive?" Barnes asked, jolting Clint out of his thoughts as he approached the cart, tossing in a box of Trojans — and because of fucking course they would be Magnums — before asking, "Hey, you okay man?"

Clint blinks and quickly slaps a sloppy grin on his face, "Didn't know they had condoms in your day, Pumpkin."

"Just how old do you think I am?" Barnes laughs, and Clint clenches his stomach to physically stop the shiver that wants to shoot down his spine, "Come on, let's get outta here. We gotta date with a couch, a couple'a pizzas and our Netflix queue."

He takes the cart with his gloved metal hand and leaves Clint standing flabbergasted in the aisle. Jesus, get ahold of yourself Barton.

"Let's GO, Honey Bunny."

Clint groaned. He was so throughly and totally fucked.

•••

Clint walks into the kitchen of the common area to find Steve and Tony hunched over, whispering frantically to each other before they noticed him standing there. God, these two are so transparent.

"Hey Katniss," Tony says quickly yet casually, spinning around on the stool as if he wasn't just caught most definitely conspiring with Steve, "How was shopping? Get anything good?"

Clint narrows his eyes, noticing the light flush on Steve's neck as he remains utterly determined to not make eye contact.

"Beer and condoms," Barnes announces, pushing his way past Clint, smirking as Steve chokes on his coffee and immediately begins coughing, "You know, the essentials."

Tony urgently starts slapping Steve's back as he struggles for air, "Jesus, Barnes, I think you broke him."

"Yeah, well. Figured by now I wouldn't have to tip toe around poor little Stevie's delicate sensibilities," Bucky laughed, ruffling his hair as he passes, "It's nice to see some things'll never change."

He leaps over the back of the couch with all of the grace a man of his size and build shouldn't have, especially while balancing two pizza boxes on one hand, before shouting, "You coming or what Barton? You promised me dinner and a movie and I won't be stood up, Honey Bunny."

Steve chokes again and Clint loses all composure, almost falling to the floor as his whole body shakes with laughter, "Coming Pumpkin!"

He ignores the way Tony's eyes flicker between him and the couch; Clint can practically hear the gears spinning in his head as he tries to figure out exactly what the fuck is going on here.

Slumping down next to Barnes on the couch, Clint grabs the slice out of his metal hand and replaces it with a beer.

"So what's on the agenda for tonight?" Barnes asks, using his thumb to pop the top off the bottle — what an awesome party trick — looking at Clint expectantly as he reaches for another slice.

"Air Bud," he replies with a smirk, "It's about a dog that plays basketball, just go with it."

Clint Barton is a patient man, he has to be, it's his job.

But he swears on all things unholy, Barnes — who has shifted and is now pressed flushed against him— is going to be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a brief interlude with Steve and Tony and Clint and Bucky are 16 year old girls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!
> 
> I am so overwhelmed by the positive response my silly little idea has gotten, that I've banged out a short little fluffernutter of a chapter to post tonight, since the first chapter was short as well.
> 
> The following chapters will be much longer, I promise, and will be updated each week on Monday or Tuesday.
> 
> Your kudos and comments give me life, and as you can see, I reply to each and every one with all the warmth of a thousand suns.
> 
> For real, you guys. My hearts all a flutter, thank you <3

"There's something more going on with the Barton-Barnes Bromance," Tony said as he continues his pacing laps behind the sofa in the penthouse, "and I don't like it."

Steve slowly huffs out a long suffering sigh, looking to the ceiling as if to silently ask Jarvis to give him the strength to deal with one of Tony's runaway trains of thought. He closes his sketchbook, placing it on his lap in order to give his boyfriend the full and undivided attention he is so obviously asking for.

"I don't know what to tell you Tony," Steve says, again, for what seems to be the hundredth time, "You don't know Bucky like I do, he was like this with everyone."

Tony scoffs indignantly, "He doesn't flirt with me, and I'm a solid ten, which makes me feel like there's something wrong with me that I don't know about. I'm everybodys type, why _wouldn't_ he want to flirt with me?"

"Because you're my boyfriend, you're off limits."

Tony stops his pacing and smiles widely, "I love it when you get all possessive, it's hot as hell, by the way. But still," he sniffs, pouting, "I like the attention."

Steve just rolls his eyes, picking up his book back up and settling back on the couch, "I'm so sorry that my love and adoration isn't enough to satisfy your limitless ego Tony."

Steve smiles to himself as he waits, and it only takes mere seconds before Tony flings his sketchbook onto the coffee table, climbing unceremoniously over the couch and settling onto Steve's lap, pinning him between his thighs.

"You are more than enough to satisfy everything I could ever want and need, Steve," Tony says, his voice laced with genuine sincerity, leaning forward to gently kiss Steve's forehead, "But still. I don't like this. Barton is a little shit all on his own, and Barnes only encourages him."

"Come on Tony," Steve pleads, resting his hands on his thighs, "Leave them be. They're obviously getting along well enough, what's the worst that can happen?"

"You do realize that we are talking about a master spy and a super soldier assassin, right? They're both snipers, I bet they're just waiting for the opportune time to strike."

"Okay, now you just sound paranoid."

"You just say that because you're not an impartial party," Tony replies, "Watch, I'll prove to you those two are up to no good. Jarvis?" — and by this point, Tony is complete immune to Steve's Disapproving Looks — "What are our Sniper Bros up to?"

"Mr Barton is on his floor, and Mr Barnes is in the elevator, heading that way."

Tony beams, vindicated, "Thank you, Jarvis. See, I told you. They're up to something. Probably a _sexy_ something—"

"Stop talking Tony," Steve silences him in the only way he knows how, grinning madly before manhandling Tony onto his back, covering the smaller mans body with his own and eating his words with his lips.

•••

When Barnes shows up for their nightly Pop Culture 101 Lesson, Clint is already on the ass end of a six pack, dancing around his kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of purple sweatpants, singing wildly off key about the days of his youth, and what it means to be a man.

"What makes you think you know how to dance?" Barnes laughs as he admires the various weaponry Clint has displayed within arms reach on the walls of the living room.

He keeps most of his archery equipment here instead of his actual apartment, because not only did he find himself spending more time at the tower now that he and Barnes are bros, but he also doesn't completely trust some of the shadier residents of Bedford–Stuyvesant. The last thing he needs is someone breaking into his apartment just to sell off a priceless, custom made bow to a less than legit pawn broker for pennies on the dollar.

Bed Stuy has changed, man.

"Because I'm the Amazing Hawkeye, come on!" he shouts, closing the freezer door with his elbow, shuffling in time with the music as he dances towards the couch.

Barnes snorts as Clint drops down next to him, a bottle of liquor in one hand, and gives Barnes his most favorite mug, "Sorry, s'all I got, but it'll do," he cracks open the bottle, involuntarily recoiling as the fumes hit his nose, before splashing in a heavy pour, "Now, this shit right here is Everclear and it'll be strong enough to knock a super solider on his ass. I had to go all the way to Jersey to pick this up, so you better appreciate this Pumpkin, because I don't venture into Jersey for just anyone."

"You spoil me, Honey Bunny."

He puts the bottle on the coffee table and pulls his legs under him to face Barnes and grabs his mug, "So, what're we drinking to?"

Barnes has his bottom lip tucked into his teeth, and Clint is absolutely not staring at it. No, not at all. The smirk that stretches across those chapped lips would say otherwise, but he is choosing to ignore it, "Well, like we used to say in the army, here's to staying positive and testing negative."

It may be the alcohol talking, but Clint finds himself more than willing to do damn near anything to make that man laugh again, "Cheers to that, Pumpkin."

They clink their respective glasses, and before Clint can even begin to wrap his beer addled brain around the very implications of that toast, Barnes throws his head back and completely downs his share in one go. Clint is transfixed by the flexing muscles in his neck and the way his Adam's apple bobs and wow, he is cutting that thought off right now before his treasonous brain takes him down a road he doesn't want to travel while in Barnes' company.

"Holy HELL," Barnes hissed, storm grey eyes watering red, gasping, "is this gasoline?!"

Clint, apparently, can't handle this, and he burst out laughing: James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier himself, is sitting cross legged on his couch and coughing like a high school girl who just took her first swig of cheap vodka out of a plastic bottle.

He must be dreaming. This can't be real life.

He needs a picture of this. This moment needs to be immortalized for all of eternity, because no one is going to believe him. The betrayed look on his face as he glares daggers at the offending mug is the most precious thing he has ever seen, and even as he struggles to get his damn phone out of his pocket, he knows he will cherish this memory until the sun burns out and takes all of humanity with it.

"Okay, new lesson!"

Finally freeing his phone from his pants, Clint all but throws himself at Barnes, consumed with very manly giggles as he swipes up on his phone to open the front facing camera.

"What're you—"

"Hold on," Clint slurs through his now uncontrollable laughter, holding his thumb down on the shutter as soon as the two of them are in frame, "Lemme take a selfie."

Clint can't remember the last time he laughed so hard and so honestly, and he is sent into another fit of hysterics when the photo pops up to show the top half of his face, drunkenly cross eyed, with Barnes over him, his expression bewildered yet fond and delightfully adorable.

It was only when Barnes softly asked him to send him the picture, his breath hot against his neck, does Clint notice the metal arm snaked around his waist, his body held in place by the cool hand anchored on his hip.

He doesn't dare move, heart racing at their new found proximity, but if the shuddering exhale behind him is any indication, Barnes has him exactly where he wants him.

Barnes doesn't move his arm when Jarvis starts up Billy Madison — "This movie epitomizes 90's comedy, Adam Sandler was on a roll." — and Clint knows he can blame this all on the alcohol in the morning. If he has too.

He really really hopes he doesn't have to.

But for now? He's going to enjoy the weight of an arm across his bare stomach, the warmth of his body pressed up against another's, and as his breaths become more shallow and his heart rate slows, he swears he can feel a smile against his neck and a thumb lightly sweep across his hip bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Nice and quick. I promise the following chapters will be longer, but I didn't want to leave you off with a short first chapter. We're in this for the long haul, my loves. Get comfortable. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr and yell with me:
> 
> Tumblr.com/somethingamazinghashappened


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sniper Bros sneak past Jarvis and out of the tower, and Tony Stark doesn't give a damn about your privacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> I couldn't sleep last night, so I did this instead. And I know I said updates on Monday/Tuesday, but I am incredibly impatient and didn't want to wait. 
> 
> Again, no beta. 
> 
> Again, I love you all, my darling dears.

Clint didn't have a nightmare last night.

This is a very recent and quite interesting development.

Most interestingly, however, is that he's not in his bed. Did he go to bed last night? He's face down in a puddle of his own drool — oh, _gross_ — and feels his face peel from the leather as he sits up.

Okay, so didn't go to bed, passed out on the couch then. He brings a blind hand to his face, reaching his other arm over his head, half yawning half groaning thru a stretch before he realizes the apartment is profoundly silent and it smells like fucking heaven.

He doesn't have his ears in, but there's coffee.

There is a god.

His eyes are forced open by a small plastic case being shoved in his hands, and finds himself face to face with a smiling, sleep tousled Barnes and come on man, it's so unfair how the man can actually wake up looking like that. He's looking down at him expectantly, standing shirtless and barefoot in Clint's living room, hair pulled back in a bun like a god damn hipster Instagram model.

When the world clicks back on, he realizes he's laughing out loud and he opens his eyes to find Barnes staring down at him, palming two mugs in one hand.

"Mornin', Honey Bunny," he says, handing off one of the mugs and taking his seat — Clint wasn't certain when it became _his_ seat, but Barnes _owned_ it — on the couch.

"Aw, coffee," he sighs deeply into his mug, "You're my only friend."

Barnes snorts next to him, but settles in, knowing from experience that Clint is completely useless in the morning until he's had an exorbitant amount of caffeine.

His phone vibrates once in his pocket before the first new bars of God Bless America cuts thru the companionable silence, and Barnes is forever grateful for modern technology and his ability to customize his alert tones. Being able to riff on Steve without him needing to be in the same room is a gift from the gods for which he is eternally grateful.

Digging his phone out to read Steve's text, he receives a text from Stark, which is simply a screenshot of the security feed, Steve standing in front of his apartment door, brows furrowed into his Concerned Face #6, as he stares at something off frame.

Swiping the image away with a smile, he brings up Steve's text, the grin on his face widening as he scrolls thru the message, "Hey Barton, ya with me yet?"

Clint turns to him, still clutching his coffee for dear life like someone would actually be foolish enough to try to take it when there's an arrow in arms reach, bleary eyed but more alert, nodding, "Yeah yeah I'm with you."

"So Steve just texted me: Hey Buddy, you missed our early mornin' runnin' date, just checkin' in on ya, I'm very concerned that Barton is becoming a bad influence. I know I've been distracted lately, havin' the worlds greatest boyfriend and all, but I am sure he would be more than willing to set aside some time for some us to do some Old Timey Brooklyn Bonding, on his dime, and also— and then it cuts off there."

"I know I'm dead to the world, but that doesn't sound like Cap."

"It's because its not, look," he pulls up the screen shot from Stark, handing the phone over to Clint, "he thinks he's being sneaky by standing off camera, but—"

"Following Steve's line of sight, it's obvious he's staring daggers right at someone Tony's size."

"Exactly."

Clint grins, "Fuck yeah, Sniper Bros," and they high five like the shameless dorks they are.

"Speaking of Brooklyn," Clint yawns, "How you feel about taking a field trip today? I gotta swing by my apartment to take care of a few things."

"Wait. You have an apartment in Brooklyn? Why would you possibly stay here when you have your own place?"

Clint really doesn't want him to know that his tower apartment had mostly remained unused before D.C. He certainly didn't want to mention that he only started staying full time after he discovered that not only was Barnes an insomniac like he was, but that he really enjoyed his company more than anyone really should. So what that Clint had wanted to be sure he was around, just in case Barnes needed a shoulder to learn on or someone to sit in silence with. Clint was just being a good friend.

And now that they've apparently graduated to the level of friendship where waking up on the couch snuggled together like a couple of touch starved weirdos is just something that happens.

Clint's not gonna complain.

"The range _is_ pretty sweet," Clint supplies, which earns him a knowing grin from Barnes,"Besides, I wouldn't be good at my job if I didn't know the aim and location of every fixed security camera in the building, hidden and otherwise."

"Touché."

Clint shrugs into a stretch, not all all purposefully rolling his shoulders and arching his back. He's not posturing, he swears. He doesn't even smile a little bit when he see Barnes staring out of the corner of his eye.

"Come on, we can take the subway. I'm willing to bet we can make it out of the tower without showing up on camera, really give 'em something to get their panties in a bunch over."

"I don't know if you noticed, but I'm really not dressed for the occasion."

"I probably have something you can wear," Clint says, looking Barnes up and down to solely assess if he will fit into his clothes, he's absolutely not checking him out, "sit tight."

Barnes was of stockier build; a bit broader down the middle than Clint was, but not by much. His waist didn't set as narrow, with heavier muscle anchoring his ribcage and stretching from his hips, but Clint was sure he had something that would fit.

Because that's what he was doing. Eyeing him for reasons. Clothes reasons. Clothes.

Right.

He disappears into his bedroom, and appears moments later, a pile of folded clothes in his hand and a wide shit eating grin on his face, tossing the pile over to Barnes' awaiting arms.

He takes one look down at the shirt in his arms before matching Clint's grin with his own, "This is perfect."

•••

"So what you're saying is that you're not the least bit concerned with any of this," Tony asks, waving a screwdriver around absently as he fiddled over some circuit board or that Steve doesn't really understand.

"No Tony," Steve answers dutifully from where he was sprawled out on the couch, "and I think it's great that the two of them became friends. They have more in common than I think they realize, and it's nice seeing Bucky more comfortable with himself and—"

"Oh my god," Tony interrupts, dropping the screwdriver and spinning in his chair, his busy project all but forgotten on the work bench behind him, "Oh my god, Steve. They're fucking."

"Wait, what?"

"They're so totally fucking. Steve, how did we miss this? How did _I_ miss this? Fucking super spies," he snaps his fingers at the ceiling, "Jarvis, pull me up any footage of Barnes and Barton being comfy."

"Privacy, Tony!" Steve calls, face buried behind his hands, dragging himself off the couch and heading towards Tony's workspace, "We've talked about this."

Tony simply ignores him, pulling himself in his chair along the workbench and away from Steve as nonchalantly as one Tony Stark can manage, "I know, I remember that conversation. I also seem to remember saying my tower my rules, that this is a Starktatorship, blah blah blah."

His eyes are focused on the multiple security feeds: dinner with the team, movie night in the common room, late nights at the range. His well trained eyes and manic attention to detail soaking in every seemingly salacious peculiarity; every shoulder bump, every stolen glance and secretive smile.

"You can't say that they aren't handsy Cap," Tony says, bringing attention to last weeks movie night. Tony had insisted that watching the Lord of the Rings absolutely should count as a team building exercise, and no one but Steve was complaining.

Clint was sitting on the far back love seat, with Barnes tucked between his legs on the floor, his metal arm wrapped around Clint's calf. Clint leans over and whispers into his ear, pointing at something on the screen. Barnes simply nods and sits straight up, and Clint scoots closer to the edge.

"They're practically cuddling, Cap. Friends don't cuddle."

"Bucky does," Steve sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, "You gotta understand, Tony. Sometimes we had to make a choice between food and heat, and Bucky always insisted on making sure I got fed so we'd share a bed when our heat got cut off, and during the war, privacy was a luxury. The same men you fought beside during the day were the same men you huddled together with at night so you didn't freeze to death."

"So did you guys braid each other's hair in the 40's too?"

Steve barks out a laugh into Tony's shoulder, "Don't be ridiculous. Bucky Barnes doesn't let anyone touch his hair."

"So the fact that Katniss is French braiding Barnes' hair proves my point then," Tony says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest to bask in his victory as Steve tries valiantly to pick his jaw up off the floor.

"Okay," Steve concedes, "Okay, so you may have a point."

Tony lights up, "Jarvis, did you get that? I want it on record that Captain American said I'm right. Score one for Iron Man."

"This is all still speculation Tony," Steve says, placing his hands on Tony's shoulders and pulling him away from the display, feeling incredibly uncomfortable intruding on what seems to be a private moment, "and no more spying."

"I promise nothing," Tony laughs, tilting his head back to look up at Steve, "You gotta admit tho, they are adorable. I ship it."

And poor, long suffering Steve knows that once something weasels into his boyfriends big brain, there isn't much that can stop him.

"Stop meddling, Tony."

Tony just grins.

  
•••

  
They catch the C-train downtown, and get off at Nostrand Avenue. Clint didn't miss the way Barnes' eyes never stopped moving, never stopped assessing, constantly aware of all exits and all potential threats, all while maintaining a seemingly laid back demeanor. Clint can't blame him, he does the same every time he heads underground; Avenger or not, it's good to keep your eyes peeled while navigating the NYC subway system, no one wants to get pissed on.

They head down Nostrand in silence, Barnes decked comfortably in Clint's clothes; a pair of ragged thread worn jeans, an obnoxiously purple Hawkeye shirt — which he gleefully put on, much to Clint's extreme pleasure — and a black zip up hoodie to keep his arm out of sight. Clint understands wanting to hide the arm, it's nice to walk down the street as just a couple of dudes and not Hawkeye and The Winter Soldier once in a while.

Clint takes Barnes up and over a few blocks, cutting thru an alleyway behind a bodega to be sure they weren't followed. He takes his keys out as they reach the stoop of a slightly run down but not worse for wear building, and grins.

"Welcome to Casa de Barton," as he unlocks the front door, ushering Barnes inside and taking one last glance out the front door, "it should be pretty quiet around here this time of day," he says over his shoulder as they make their way up three flights of stairs, "but I'm gonna warn you right now, once we get to my place, brace yourself for a million questions."

Barnes just raises one eye brow in response, and damn him if it doesn't immediately remind him of Natasha. He misses her.

They stop at the last door and the end of a narrow hallway, and Clint turns to Barnes one last time with his key in the lock, "Also, I feel like I should've mentioned, I have a dog so..."

Barnes face, which previously held an all business expression since they entered the building, split wide open into a boyish grin, "Are you kidding me? I love dogs! Come on, lemme meet him."

Clint adds another check mark in Barnes favor to his mental checklist, and unlocks the door, swinging it open before singing, "Lucy! I'm home!"

Barnes follows Clint into the apartment, closing the door behind him, and then everything happens at once.

A one eyed, rough and tumble kinda dog comes peeling around the corner from the kitchen, running directly into Clint's open arms, followed closely by a short brunette who is all but rage personified, closing in on the happy reunion with her hands balled on her hips.

"CLINT FRANCIS BARTON," she yells, and Clint immediately stands, holding his hands up as a sign of surrender, not even flinching as she starts jabbing him in the chest, "The next time you need someone to watch Lucky, you better give me a time frame, none of this 'something important came up, I need you to watch Lucky for a few,' bullshit, what was so damn important that you had to galavant off for weeks, and don't you _dare_ try to say some Avengers business came up. I watch the news, I know things have been quiet."

Clint could only grimace, "I'm sorry?"

"I'm sorry is not good enough! Did you know I thought you went off the deep end? That you got yourself locked up somewhere? I've been trying to figure out how to tell Lucky that his dumbass Dad was never coming home, that he was going to have to move to California with me! Do you know what that would have done to him? The pizza is horrible in California Clint, Lucky isn't an LA pizza dog, he's a NY pizza dog! And another thing—"

It was this moment she noticed Clint didn't come alone, pausing her ranting to look over at Barnes who was trying so hard, bless his heart, to hold himself together and not burst into hysterics at the sight of Clint cowering against the wall.

All of the anger drains out of her face as a slow smile spread across her lips, "You gonna introduce me to your handsome friend here?"

Clint waves between the two, "Kate Bishop, Bucky Barnes. Barnes, this is my beautiful protege and full time ass-saver, Kate Bishop."

Barnes, ever the gentleman, extends his hand but Kate knocks it out of the way, "No way, big guy, we do hugs in this fam, c'mere you."

She drags him into a hug, and catches Clint eye from over his shoulder. The hug lasts mere moments, but it's more than enough time for Kate and Clint to carry an entire conversation using nothing but facial expressions.

Clint's eyes narrow: back off, I called dibs months ago.

Kate's grin widens and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline: no fair, I'll roshambo you for him.

Clint lowers his head, curling his lip slightly: I'm serious Kate, back off.

She rolls his eyes and let's him win, this time. He owes her, big time. Which really speaks to the lengths Kate would go for the blonde knuckle head, and Clint is forever grateful for taking in this particular stray.

"So!" Kate begins, breaking the hug and silent conversation, "Bucky Barnes himself, huh? You're taller than you looked on TV."

Barnes merely shrugs, and replies, "Everyone looks small next to Steve. I'm still gettin' used to the fact I don't tower over him anymore."

Kate nods, quickly leering back and forth between the two men, before bounding back into the kitchen for some beers. Clint shoots him an apologetic look, matching his small smile and nodding towards the couch.

"A dog and a protege," Barnes laughs, falling back into the couch and slapping his knees to call for Lucky, "Clint Barton, domestic man of mystery."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Clint replies, sitting next to Barnes to scratch behind Lucky's ear, "I try to keep them and this place separate from the Avengers. There's good people in this building, and they have enough to deal with on their own, they don't need the Avengers bullshit following them back here, you know?"

"Never let it be said you don't have a heart, Honey Bunny," Barnes said softly, leaning over so they sat shoulder to shoulder, neither of them daring to take their shared attention off Lucky.

"Thanks, Pumpkin," Clint murmurs, unable to stop the sheepish, bashful smile from flooding his face.

He may rightfully have an ego to rival Starks, but it's always nice to hear someone other than himself sing his praises.

"So," Barnes says louder this time, leaning back into the couch and crossing his legs to get comfortable, "Some middle name you got there Barton."

Kate's laughter explodes from the kitchen, "Oh my god, I know right?" She ambles in, handing over two beers and settling into the far corner of the couch, "I've yet to let him live it down, serves him right for keeping it from me for that long."

Barnes nods in agreement, and Kate only smiles wider.

Clint looks back and forth between the two, eyes growing wide because the deaf guy can recognize a silent conversation anywhere, and groans, "Oh no. No, no, no you guys. You two can't gang up on me," he turns to face Kate, and sternly points a finger in her face, "As my protege, I forbid you from siding with him. You're Hawkeye. You're supposed to have my back, it's why I keep you around."

"Hey!" Kate whines, "That's not fair! Why am I the only one being bossed around?"

"Because Bucky is a grown ass man," — and wait, when did Barnes become Bucky? — "and he can do as he pleases," behind him, Bucky preens, sticking his tongue out at a bewildered Kate, "I'm banking on my stunning good looks and stellar personality to keep him in line, you on the other hand, you will do everything I tell you to do, so help me. Unless you want that new composite bow I promised for your birthday and not some shit hand me down I dug out of some forgotten storage closet on a basement level at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, you side with me, always. We clear?"

The fight drains out of her at hearing about the new bow, and quite pleased with herself and the promise of a new toy, she very maturely sticks her tongue out back at Bucky over Clint's shoulder. He knew it, he's surrounded by actual children.

And as if on cue, real life petulant child Tony Starks ringtone — Applause by Lady Gaga, because Clint is becoming convinced the man can survive off attention for sustenance alone — cuts thru the air.

Clint looks down at his phone, then back up at Bucky, before sing songing, "Oooh, I bet we're gonna be in so much trouble."

They didn't exactly let anyone know they were leaving, and true to their word, they made it out of the tower without being seen by greatly utilizing the building spacious and expansive ventilation system. If Steve was concerned then, he must be having kittens by now.

Bucky just laughs and grabs the phone out of his hand, scooting closer next to Clint until they're damn near cheek to cheek. Trying and failing to keep his laughter at bay, Bucky huffs out loud and shakes his head roughly before tapping the speaker button.

"Yeah, whaddya want Tony," Bucky drawls, his voice is seeped in old Brooklyn, and suddenly his entire demeanor changes. He was a man in his element, his eyes alight under a single quirked brow.

"Bart— wait, Barnes?" Stark stammers, clearly thrown off but recovering quickly, "See! I _knew_ it! Steve! I knew it! I told you!" It now sounds like Tony is holding the phone to his chest, but he can still be heard yelling animatedly at Steve, "Barnes. Listen to me, we practice safe sex in this century, and no one knows where Barton has been. Steve no, back off Cap this is import—" There's a struggle, they can both hear Tony yelling something about condoms and venereal disease and then there's a crash.

Barnes just raises a single eyebrow at Clint, who shrugs. He still hasn't figured out the Stark and Rogers dynamic, but it works for them so he was happy.

Steve's voice filters louder thru the phone now, distant but clear, "See? No one likes it when someone else takes their phone, learn from this Tony," and Clint can see it now, Steve holding Starks phone over his head, knowing the shorter man can do nothing but whine.

Children, the lot of them.

"Hey Buck," Steve says into the phone this time, "Sorry about this, I tried to stop him."

Barnes just shakes his head, a warm nostalgic smile on his face, "You know, I don't think I'll ever get used to you being the one who wins Keep Away," he laughs and Clint is blatantly staring but he really doesn't care, and let's himself have it.

"Just checking in, Jarvis said you weren't in the tower but no one saw you leave so..."

"Yeah, Clint took me over to Brooklyn to see the old neighborhood," Bucky lies with a small grimace, "Thing's've certainly changed."

"Yeah," Steve replies, his voice nostalgic and wistful, "Yeah it has, you should check out Coney Island, Nathan's is still there, tastes different tho. And the cyclone is still standing."

"Oh, I see how it is. You're just trying to get out of it because I know you're still too chicken shit to ride it with me, punk."

"Hey, serum or not, that thing was and still is a deathtrap," There's a pause, followed by Steve's shout and Tony's laughter.

"Barnes, listen to me. Don't believe Barton when he says he's clean— STEVE STOP IT — I've witnessed that man eat questionably old pizza off the floor — STEVE I SWEAR TO GOD, DUMMY DONT JUST STAND THERE HELP ME—" and the line goes dead.

Clint blinks down at the phone, before glancing up at Bucky. Did he hear that right? Did Bucky just _lie_ to Steve Rogers, his best friend since _childhood_ , for him? Clint is pretty sure it's high treason to lie to Captain America, and Bucky did it without hesitation. For him.

Clint is so gone for him, game over man.

"So, this has been fun and all, but I'm taking this as my cue to boogie."

Both men spin around to find Kate by the front door, a small overnight bag slung over her shoulder, and Clint didn't really like the knowing smile on her face as her eyes darted between the two.

"Bucky, it was nice to meet you," she says with a smile, before turning her attention to Clint, "Don't forget to eat, coffee doesn't count. I stocked your completely empty fridge, so you're welcome," She winks before slipping out, shouting over her shoulder, "Be back in a few days, be good!"

"She seems like a good kid," Bucky says as they both continue to stare blankly at the closed door.

"Hell of a shot too," Clint replies.

"So what's this about questionably old pizza found on the floor?"

It was Bucky's breath on his neck that abruptly drags him back to reality, and he turns to find Barnes crowded up next to him, staring at him intently with half lidded eyes, an uncharacteristically shy smile on his lips.

"In my defense," Clint gulps, struggling to make sense of the English language with Bucky right _there_ and looking at him like _that_ , "it tasted fine."

Bucky hums, shifting to his knees, his eyes darting nervously between Clint's, "I'm not imagining this right? I mean," he inhales deeply, shoving a flesh hand thru his hair, "If I kiss you right now, you're not gonna stab me, are ya?"

Clint blinks, heart stammering in his ears, "Are you asking for my fucking permission?"

"Well, yeah," Bucky laughs softly, and Clint finds he adores the blush that creeps up his neck and flushes across his cheeks.

Bucky Barnes, the Winter fucking Soldier, a man frozen thru time is sitting on his couch, blushing like a school girl, and asking permission to kiss him.

This can't be his life.

"Fucking kiss me already, you asshole," Clint breathily laughs.

Bucky is on his lap in an instant, strong thighs pinning the smaller man in place as their lips crash together. There are no fireworks, the stars don't align, but the groan than escapes deep from Bucky's throat as Clint sucks the mans bottom lip into his mouth is so delightfully sinful that it shoots down Clint's spine and lands straight in his gut.

The kiss is frenzied and intense, like either man will cease to exist if their contact is broken. Clint desperately clutches Bucky's hips, involuntarily rolling his hips forward and he isn't quite sure why he's surprised that Bucky pushes back with vigor, but he likes it, and Clint is the kind of man who will do anything twice so long as he likes it.

Bucky pulls away suddenly, and Clint doesn't pout, he swears. Bucky is completely wrecked, chapped lips swollen and eyes blown wide and Clint rocks his hips up again just to witness Bucky foxtrot on the edge of completely falling apart.

"If you do that again," he gasps — which Clint immediately does because Bucky's voice is trembling along with the rest of his body and he wants to see more —  "I can't be held responsible for what I do."

Clint just grins lazily and rolls his hips again, giving in to his body, giving into every frenzied, fool hardy, devil-may-care feeling that's been building up in his body for weeks now, because they're _here_ now and all that matters in this fucked up world is getting this magnificent wreck of a man naked and in his bed.

"I'm clean, you know," Clint whispers against his lips, and that's clearly all the permission Bucky needs.

Clint didn't think he would enjoy being manhandled, but the smile on his face confirms it when Bucky leaps off the couch, dragging him up and throwing Clint over his shoulder in one fluid motion.

"That way, soldier," Clint points down the hall, "The door on the left."

They never make it to the bedroom.

The hallway wall works just as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THAT HAPPENED. 
> 
> Next chapter will have all the smut, scouts honor. I'm just a heartless monster who wanted to make you all wait.
> 
> I've been awake for a really long time, you guys. You all deserved smut written by a less sleep deprived perv, and I will be that perv, but after a nap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky realizes that he's been carrying a torch for Clint, and that maybe he should do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> I'm sorry that this chapter took me so long, to make it up to you, I'll be posting another one later today.
> 
> My cat passed away, and I've spent the better part of the past two weeks a drunk crying mess, and it was showing in my writing. And since this is going to be happy, tooth rotting fluff, I deleted all I had and started over.
> 
> This chapter is from Bucky's POV, with the first part taking place in the past before we switch back to the present. I usually write in past tense, and now I remember why I never write in the present tense BECAUSE ITS SO HARD YOU GUYS.
> 
> So if things seem wonky, well, blame it on the alcohol because that's what I'm doing.

 

See, the thing is, Bucky isn't quite sure of the exact moment when he realized he was carrying a torch for Clint Barton, but he knows when it was set alight.  


There was no eureka moment, no profound epiphany nor dawning realization. Just the knowledge that nothing was different, yet everything's changed.

It started with a movie.

It was well after midnight when he found himself — freshly showered and comfortably dressed — hunkering down next to Clint for a film he was assured up and down he was gonna love.

He was still brewing a foul mood leftover from dinner, he was having minor issues with his arm and Stark was hovering around him, poking and prodding and incessantly suggesting modifications and upgrades all the while Bucky was trying his damnedest not to throttle the man where he stood. If Steve didn't act like the man fueled the sun itself, he would've.

He was such a good friend.

“Okay,” Clint said, shifting his weight around until he was comfortably pressed up against Bucky's side, “Tonight's lesson plan: British Comedy.”

Clint was right, Bucky really liked the irreverent nonsense of Monty Python and The Holy Grail. It reminded him of the Chaplin films him and Steve would sneak into when they were kids, a dishonest but well-needed reprieve from being poor and young in post-depression era Brooklyn. The absurd humor was enough to replace the foul taste in his mouth left behind by a starry-eyed Stark, but it was Clint’s colorful commentary — “No, you dick. You can’t be Galahad because I’m Galahad. You’re a stone cold Lancelot. Steve is clearly Arthur and Stark is Belvedere. Tash can be the rabbit, but don't tell her I said that.” — that calmed the maelstrom in his chest by the time the french followed through with their threat of a second taunting. 

“So," Clint said quietly as the movie comes to an end, "I know Stark can be a total dick sometimes, but I swear he's good people," When he was met with silence, he pushed closer, shoulder to shoulder, “What's wrong with the Go Go Gadget arm?

"It's something with the pressure sensors,” Bucky said offhandedly, “My grip should be more intuitive but—" He stills because he's never spoken to anyone about this before, not even Steve. He knew he has valuable technology anchored to his body, and that no one is even quite sure how it works, so he kept his arm and its secrets close to the chest.

This isn't Stark, nor a S.H.I.E.L.D. shrink or medic or technician who only wanted to pry his arm apart and to see how Hydra's tech evolved over time, see what made him tick. It was Clint, the first person who looked at him like another human being instead of a threat that needs to be assessed or piece of machinery that needs tuning. He was the first real friend he’d made since coming to the tower, and his usual instinct to remain distrustful of any and everyone not named Steve Rogers was surprisingly quiet. 

He glanced down at Clint, patient blue eyes locked on his own, and it was the earnest look on his face that made Bucky's decision for him.

He wanted Clint to know, wanted him to know everything.

 "Say, did you know that Steve committed multiple federal crimes to get his dumb ass enlisted?"

Once Bucky opened his mouth, he was shocked how easily the words came. Things he never wanted to talk about, things he’d never said aloud to anyone, came as easily as reading the weather in the newspaper.

He told him of the War, of getting his orders, how he thanked God that Steve kept raking in the 4H papers so would be kept state-side. How his unit was captured, how he opened his big mouth when they started pulling men, his men, out of cages and how he kicked up an unholy shit storm so they would take him instead. The days or weeks — he wasn't entirely sure and never wanted to know — he spent as a lab rat until one day tortured screams were replaced with shouts and explosions and all of a sudden Steve is there, but he was big and he was the one save the day. Never in his life had he been happier and angrier to see that punk.

Clint had to understand, he spent his childhood chasing after Steve Rogers, cashing the checks that Steve’s bravado would spend all day writing. It was one of the hardest things to reconcile with about the future; that no one knew what a foul mouthed rabble-rouser Steve really was, that hidden under the all muscle, Stars and Stripes and apple pie hid the same little snot-nosed shit he'd always been.

Clint listened to Bucky ramble, nodding when he spoke frankly of the poverty they had lived through, how he'd do anything to keep Steve fed and warm. How sometimes they'd have to choose between food and heat, and when it came down to it, Steve’s health would always win out, no matter how loud Steve would protest. Those weeks, they'd stay huddled together under a pile of blankets to stave off the unforgiving New York winters,

So when Steve showed up looking like he did, very much behind enemy lines and not back home in Brooklyn — _especially_ when Bucky distinctly remembered telling him to not do anything stupid while he was gone — he was admittedly a little angry.

Then when Steve asked him to follow him into the jaws of death, of course he followed. Steve could've asked to follow him barefoot thru all seven layers of hell, and all Bucky would've needed to know was when they were leaving. Even knowing what he knew now, there would never be a time where Bucky didn't have Steve’s back.

It only seemed fitting that it would be Steve who rescued Bucky in the end, dragging him by his ears back to the tower to keep him safe, and only after saying it aloud, could he fully appreciate the irony of the entire situation.

It wasn't Steve's fault that he fell, none of it is. He knew Steve had spent all this time bearing a cross for him, every time he so much as glanced at Bucky's arm his face hardened just a little bit more.

It wasn't Steve's fault that Hydra found him, not his fault that they conditioned and groomed him to be The Winter Soldier.

He liked his arm, he really did. The knock off serum was great and all, but the arm is his and his alone. It was just as much a part of him as flesh and bone and to be honest, he barely noticed it anymore.

He knows what he did, he will have those memories for the rest of his life, no matter how fragmented they are. He has seen his files and intimately knows his body count but he was rationally aware of the lack of agency he had in between his stints in cyro. Yes, he’s Bucky Barnes, he knows that, but he wasn't the same man that fell from the train, and he only wished Steve understood that. He knows how everyone looks at him like it was only a matter of time until the countdown hit zero and he detonated and took the whole tower down with him, but he accepted that.

What he didn't accept was seeing that look from Steve, because it didn't matter if Steve is big now, he’s always going to be that punk ass kid from Brooklyn, always his right hand. Bucky spent his whole life trying to keep that kid safe and if Bucky thought he was a threat to anyone, especially Steve, he wouldn't be here.

What he doesn't tell him, however, is everything that goes on upstairs. Bucky, for what it's worth, was handling everything surprising well, all things considered. Sure, sleep escaped him, and the frustration of not quite knowing whether things he'd done while under Hydra's thumb actually happened or if it was just his brain trying to make sense of the static. Logically, he knew that he had every right to an extended stay in a nuthouse somewhere, but so long as everything was kept neat and tidy and in its place, Bucky could pretend that his nonchalant reaction to the trauma he's experienced, his ability to compartmentalize his emotions were perfectly normal.

Clint remained quiet but stayed a comforting warmth against Bucky's side. Bucky was relieved knowing that he his winding, long winded story hadn't scared the other man away, rather he feels closer to him than ever.

"The arm is pretty awesome tho," Clint finally said breaking the tension with a laugh, "We get you into a leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses and you can start a second career in the inevitable, ironically gritty re-re-reboot of the Terminator franchise."

"I'll be the next best thing, bigger than Stark even."

"Oh my god, yes. Please, now we have to do this just so I can see his face," Clint laughed, dragging a hand over his face, "You'd get to start another life as James Barnes, big shot actor. I’ll come along to help keep you grounded and for all the free food, obviously. I'll be the Eric to your Vince," he bolted straight up, snapping his fingers and grabbing his phone off the coffee table, "Tash can be your Ari, she's the only one of us with a shot at fucking Angelina Jolie and I’ll tell her that myself."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Trust me, it's funny because it's true," Clint assured him as his fingers continued to swipe and tap away, "Could you imagine how Stark would react to being knocked down a peg? He's the biggest drama queen in the entire city, if he feels like he's being ignored for even a minute, he throws a press conference or invents a new element just to be back in the news for a few. Check this out," Clint reached up to tug on his earlobe, and Bucky is shocked when an impossibly small earpiece popped out into his waiting palm, "He made me these when I told him that the aids I already had worked perfectly fine. They're damn near invisible, I can link thru to the comms so my hearing stays stereo, I can even stream Spotify so I can kick ass to a soundtrack. He said he was bored, but I know he made them purely out of spite."

"Hold on, you're deaf? Why is this the first I'm hearing of this? What else aren't you telling me?"

Clint merely grinned, working the earpiece back into his ear, "A gentlemen never divulges all of his secrets."

Bucky raised an eyebrow in response and brought his hands up to his face, pinching his thumb and forefingers at the corner of his eyes. He opened his fingers, sweeping an exaggerated shocked expression on his face as a flurry of emotions flash across Clint's.

The gears whirled in his wrist, and he shook away the jittery sensation that shot up his arm because he couldn't bring himself to look away from Clint’s face.

Confusion and surprise gave way to the most genuine smile that Bucky had ever seen on the man, it shone from his eyes and erased the world-worn weariness the man carried underneath the wit and the banter and it _woke_ something in him.

A warmth had settled in his chest, ebbing away the permanent cold left behind by cryostasis and the lingering the phantom memories of his flesh and bone arm. It made him feel less like the weapon that was used to change the course of history and more human than he'd felt in decades.

"You can sign," Clint has sighed happily, and that blinding smile only grew larger, "That's awesome," he paused, glancing down to Bucky's twitching wrist, "You should let Stark take a look at that, he's trustworthy when it comes to tech. His favorite thing is keeping Fury and the Pentagon in the dark about his toys. I mean, I trust my ears to the guy."

It wasn't until he found himself sitting silently in a chair in Stark's workshop two days later — pointedly ignoring the endless excited chatter about schematics and bio-engineering from Stark and Steve’s proud, encouraging smile — that it fully hit him.

Not even Steve could get him to give Stark access to his arm, and Lord knows he’d tried, but Clint has managed to convince him on his word alone.

It made him feel compromised for the first time since he recognized Steve as the man on the bridge, but this time, he _liked_ it.   
  
  
•••

  
Bucky makes the decision to stop being such wimp and finally do something about whatever was going on between them when he woke up this morning and found himself bunk buddies with Clint.  
  
Now that the perfect moment has presented itself, away from the tower and the all seeing eye of Jarvis, he's not chickening out.  
  
He fucking isn't.  
  
He is just finding it really hard to concentrate with Barton sitting there and breathing his air and smiling like that, and all at once he feels safe and warm and fucking terrified.  
  
This is madness. Steve crash lands into the arctic, Bucky falls off a fucking train, and they both wake into a future where the once little Steve Rogers manages to settle down with the loudest man in the known universe, and all it takes is Clint's crooked smile on his stupid face to short circuit Bucky’s brain.  
  
He barely registers Kate leaving, and before his brain can catch up with the rest of his body, he’s kneeling on the couch. All he can think about is how Clint must taste like coffee and sunshine and while his brain screams in protest, he is mindlessly asking if he can kiss him.  
  
This is it, it’s out in the open now and this is how he is going to die. Bucky is gonna get stabbed and he's gonna lose the best friend he's made since becoming self-aware in the goddamn future, all because the guy makes him feel things in new and exciting ways and Bucky had to go and fuck it all up by saying something about it.  
  
Granted, Bucky has been testing the waters for weeks now, and Clint has been entirely receptive. He knows that he and Steve have a weirdly close and intimate friendship that most people aren't fortunate enough to know or understand, but whatever this is, whatever is going on between him and Clint was an entirely different ballgame.  
  
Steve feel like going home; a living memory of a time long gone, his partner in arms, always on his six, but the neighborhoods changed. Everything is new and different and Bucky is new and different, but now he's aware of it. Every time he used to wake up, the people looked off and things would have changed but it wasn't important then.

Now, he notices everything. Every minor and seemingly insignificant detail, logging it to memory like tomorrow he's going to wake up and it'll have jumped five years and he will remember nothing but the cold.  
  
He never wants to forget Honey Bunny.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised smut, and the smut is coming, scouts honor. Just had to get some background out of the way. 
> 
> come say hi to me: somethingamazinghashappened.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” - Douglas Adams

So maybe Clint doesn't have the best timing, but you can't blame a guy for trying to show off in his own house, even as he is being carried away to do unspeakably sexy things with an unspeakably sexy man.

 

"Did I ever tell you I'm hella flexible?"

 

He grins as Bucky grinds to a halt, a single eyebrow elegantly arched as he looks incredulously over his shoulder, "How flexible we talkin?"

 

"Hella. More flexible than Nat," Clint boasts, inhaling deeply as Bucky's eyes darken, his heart racing as he watches Bucky realize the million different new and exciting things they can do with this new information.

 

"Bullshit, I've seen that women do splits up against a wall as a warm up,"  Bucky unceremoniously drops Clint to his feet and takes a step back, sweeping his hands out in front of him, "Prove it."

 

Prove it, he says. The challenge resonates up his spine and flips a switch in his head. All he wants to do is drag Bucky into his bedroom and not come out for days, but he can't ignore the growl in those words and _damn_ Barnes for shamelessly tapping into Clint's competitive compulsion. The guy is playing him like a deck of cards, but like _hell_ he was going to be challenged in his own house.

 

Libido be damned, this was about principle damn it.

 

"Thems fightin' words Barnes," Clint warns, his voice steadier than he feels on his own two legs at this point, but he steps back, refusing to break eye contact as he peels his shirt off, purposefully making a show of stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders.

 

With little preamble other than a cocky smirk, he swings his arms straight in the air, following the momentum into a full flat back bend, planting the palms of his hands on the floor flush behind his heels. In one fluid motion, he kicks his left leg straight up, toes pointed to the ceiling, before kicking off with his other foot.

 

It's the simplest trick he knows, but always draws the biggest reaction from a crowd. It's not every day you witness an all together normal looking dude bend himself in half, but in a way that spits in the face of nature. The one handed handstand is a nice flourish, and he's only showing off when he drops his legs into a full split.

 

Even upside down, the dumbfounded expression on Bucky's face is one that Clint intends to commit to memory, but his bewildered expression is quickly mirrored when he finds Bucky's face is now level with his. Clint's triumphant win lasts only moments, before he deflates with sharp annoyance that Bucky has joined him on the floor in an one-armed handstand, but is balanced perfectly on one single finger of his metal hand.

 

Oh, hell no.

 

"No fair, that's cheating," Clint definitely doesn't  pout as he briskly stands into a layout step out, before roughly pushing Bucky's legs. He is going to ignore the bastards laughter as he remains as solid and rigid as ever – this is his fault. He should have never let Stark fuck with that arm – and the way his shirt is bunched around his shoulders, exposing the ridges on his hips and Clint can't help but follow the light trail of hair that runs from his navel only to disappear beneath his waistband of his — Clint's, fuck that's right, those are his clothes — jeans, "Okay you know what, on your feet Sarge, we have a score to settle."

 

Bucky dissolves into gales of laughter, spilling to the ground and clutching his sides as Clint stalks his way across the room, vaulting effortlessly over the couch and only barely missing where Lucky was passed out on the floor.

 

"Oh, come on, Honey Bunny!" Bucky shouts after him, "Don't be like that."

 

"Fat fucking chance, kid!" Clint yells, ripping a handful of darts from the wall before stomping back to where Bucky remains a laughing mess on the floor, "You are not fucking Honey Bunny-ing your way outta this. You started it, now get your ass up Barnes, so I can hand it back to you and restore balance to the force."

 

Bucky blinks up at Clint who is waiting expectantly with a fist full of darts, a give 'em hell attitude etched on his face and a rock solid hard on blatantly pushing against his jeans, "Oh my god, are you serious right now?"

 

"Sure as shit, I'm serious," Clint answers, reaching down with gusto to haul him to his feet.

 

They square off against each other, Clint refusing to break eye contact, because he can focus and not be distracted by the flare of Bucky’s nostrils and the way his teeth are thoughtlessly grazing his lower lip. Clint has spent many a shower with his fist wrapped around his dick, imagining how it would feel to have Bucky look at him the way he is looking at him right now, but Clint has to defend his honor and title as The Amazing Hawkeye.

 

He's gotta.

 

"The i in Friday."

 

"What?"

 

"I'm calling my shot," Clint nods to a calendar that hung on the wall in the kitchen. It was out of date by at least a couple of months, but the bowl of puppies featured had really grown on Clint by the end of the month, and if Katie hadn't thrown it out by now, that's how it will remain, "I'm gonna dot the i. The third Friday of the month."

 

"No fucking way," Bucky taunts, "$50 and a blow job says you miss it."

 

A wide grin sweeps across Clint face, because Bucky Barnes has just fallen victim to one of the more lesser known classic blunders: Never go in against an archer in a game of darts, _especially_ when sex is on the line. He doesn't even look before letting the dart fly from his fingertips, smiling only when he hears the satisfying 'thunk' of metal piercing drywall.

 

“Come on, punk," Clint says, gripping Bucky's shoulder and pushing him towards the kitchen, "See if I'm right. Make my day."

 

Hands up in surrender, Bucky makes his way into the kitchen, letting out a low whistle as he finds the dart stuck into a calendar, right on target, "Well, I'll be damned."

 

"Damn right, you’ll be damned," Clint calls back,  "You think you can just come into my house and—"

 

Bucky cuts him off, "O in Oman," looking over his shoulder, aiming for the world map on the far wall.

 

Clint hones in on the Middle East, hoping and wishing to any and every Old One still listening that Bucky's dart was forced to take a scenic detour to Kenya. Not that he was in any way opposed to Bucky's dick in his mouth — in fact, he fully endorses the idea — but like hell was he going to let someone waltz in and clean house at his own game.

 

The dart was exactly where Bucky called it, dead center of the o in Oman, and with it Clint's resolve crumbles and he can't stop the guttural whine that escapes his throat. It's a perfect shot, and Clint is simultaneously frustrated at the accuracy and the fact he is still wearing clothes because he has _never_ in his life been more turned on and he is going to climb that man like a fucking tree once he can get his legs working again.

 

"So do I get my blowjob or what?"

 

Clint releases a shaky breath he didn't realize he was holding and turns to find Bucky hovering in his personal space. Clint takes in all the details of his face; brown eyes dark and half-lidded, nostrils flaring with each uneven breath, his bottom lip glistening and swollen and Clint breaks out into a face-splitting grin because Bucky kissed him and this is awesome.

 

"That was the hottest thing I've ever seen," Clint manages, his voice breathless and drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears and his increasingly shallow and rapid breaths, "and as fucking incredible you look wearing my clothes, I would really rather see what you look like without them."

 

Bucky's response is immediate and predatory, gracefully pulling the Hawkeye shirt over his head and tossing it off to side, closing the distance between the two as they come flush together. Clint's breath catches in his chest and he forgets how to breathe as the ambrosial sensation of skin on skin overtakes him.

 

“So fucking bossy.”

 

“Oh, you know you love it,” Clint challenges, laughing as Bucky crowds him up against the wall, lifting his chin to lend easier access to Bucky's roaming mouth.

 

And Bucky did love it. This was nothing like his time, back when men were thrown in jail for falling into another man's bed and any sort of meaningful relationship was kept hidden away behind locked closet doors.

 

To keep up appearances, he’d take girls dancing or to see a picture, he would show them a real good night, and be a perfect gentleman as always when he left them on their doorstep with nothing but a kiss on the cheek.

 

It was nothing like this; deep, languid kisses and lazily wandering hands, where privacy was a luxury to be taken advantage of. Bucky wanted to indulge in this moment, there was no need to sloppily rush to a silent climax in a back alley behind a bar, knowing there was time to map every plane and angle of the older man's body and coax every heathen whine and whimper past his trembling lips.

 

Bucky is entranced by how beautifully responsive Clint is and he selfishly drags his teeth across the crook of Clint's neck so he can feel the man shudder under his touch. He gives into Bucky easily, pliant and breathless in his hands, a live wire of want and need lost in a haze of lust so thick he can barely breathe.

 

He can't stop staring.

 

Clint's eyes are shut and his mouth hangs silently open, but his body speaks volumes; twisting and flexing and so unabashedly honest about what he likes and how he likes it; as if their kiss on the couch tore down the carefully constructed and well maintained wall he erected between the two of them and finally, finally he can have what he wants.

 

Bucky has thought about this for weeks, and now that they're here, clinging to each other like they're afraid of what’ll happen if they let go, it hits him all at once how natural this feels. There is no awkwardness, no hesitation, like this isn't the first time they’ve torn each others clothes off, as if this was just another Thursday.

 

Clint wants and needs as much as Bucky wants and needs, for what feels like just as long.

 

For a world class sniper, he feels like such an oblivious idiot for not seeing it sooner.

 

“Shoulda made a move on you _ages_ ago,” Bucky sighs into Clint's neck, settling his hands on the archers hips so he can pull him closer, slipping his hands into the waist of his boxers “I’ve been laying it on thick for weeks now, and all I hadda do was ask?”

 

He turns his head, murmuring into Bucky’s hair, “Shut up. You’re a handsy man, Pumpkin. Didn't wanna get my hopes up.”

 

Bucky’s eyes darken, a smarmy grin slipping across his face as he straightens, raking his eyes down Clint's flushed chest. Slowly, he drags his thumbs along the waistband of Clint's pants until he reached his navel, taking his bottom lip under his teeth as their eyes meet.

 

“Oh, I’m handsy huh?”

 

Clint just nods deftly before Bucky spins him around again, back to chest, walking them backward until he hits the wall. He hooks his thumbs around Clint's waistband and yanks down until Clint is standing embarrassed in front of him, his breath hitching when Bucky wraps a cool metal hand around the base of his dick, savoring the full body tremor that rocks through Clint when Bucky rocks his hips forward to slot his dick in the crack of Clint's ass.

 

“Eng, God yes, in the best way possible. Keep being handsy.”

 

Bucky, ever the eager beaver, happily obliges, and will do so until the end of time if it means he gets to hear the absolutely sinful and utterly wrecked groan that escapes Clint’s chapped lips.

 

“I love it when you're bossy,” Bucky huffs, taking in the smell of Irish Spring, Tiger Balm and coffee that was so distinctly Clint, and he can't remember the last time he felt this normal.

 

Clint sighs deeply, reflexively rocking his hips, rolling his head to rest on Bucky's shoulder, he asks, “Can I ruin the moment real quick?”

 

Bucky snorts, but doesn't relent in pulling the man even closer, “Are you asking me for fucking permission?” he parrots, earning him a huff of laughter that breaks the sudden tension.

 

“Alright, so” Clint starts, “I probably should have mentioned this earlier, and it’s kind of a funny story, see --”

 

“Ruin the moment faster,” Bucky groans, rutting into him impatiently, brushing his lips against his temple when Clint shudders. He's all kinetic energy waiting to be released, and Bucky can't wait to map every angle and plane of his body with his mouth and learn every single sound that spills off his lips.

 

“I’m kinda crazy about you, Pumpkin.”

 

The implication behind those words banged around Bucky’s head as his entire world grinds to a halt and he goes very still. Clint Barton is going to be the death of him, mark his words. He wants to tell the ridiculous naked man anchored in his arms everything, how human he makes him feel, that he makes him feel at all. Bucky feels his arms reflexively tighten around Clint's shoulders, the all-consuming, tunnel-minded flood of protectiveness fills his chest, and his heart rate hitches because the thought confirms every single question he's had leading up to this very moment.

 

The extreme lengths he would go to for the ridiculous, naked man pressed up against his chest is apocalyptic, and the thought that he would scorch the earth for him doesn't even bother him a little.

 

“You know, in this century, it is customary to give a response to another's personal declaration of feelings,” Barton jokes, but Bucky can hear the undercurrent of wavering uncertainty — no, that's not right — and Bucky never wants to hear anything but the usual cocksure confidence from him.

 

Bucky loosens his grip, pulling an about-face so he had Clint up against the wall, his face in his hands. The way he's looking at him, like he was wrong for saying something and that maybe Bucky didn't feel the same way he did, it broke his damn heart.

 

He can't find the words to explain – that he would most likely still be bunked in Steve's empty apartment right now if Clint didn't barge into his life like a goddamn freight train, that at times he actually finds himself grateful for the million different circumstances that dropped him off at the doorstep of the 21st century because it led him here, to this very moment – so he kisses him. It’s slow and utterly devoted, and through it Bucky hopes that he can make the man understand.  
  
He finally pulls away, hands still cradling Clint’s dazed face, “I guess I'm kinda sweet on you too.”  
  
“I knew it,” Clint says, and with it all of the uncertainty melts from him face, “I knew you thought I was pretty. Why are you still wearing clothes?”

 

“Because you haven't taken them off yet, asshole.”

 

“Make me,” Clint taunts, winking before he bounds down the hall, grabbing a door frame and swinging himself into the bathroom.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but is quick to follow in what must be the strangest foreplay he’s ever experienced, reaching the bathroom just in time to collide with Clint, who shoves a bottle of lube into his hand, laughing as stands spread eagle up against the hallway wall.

 

“Wanna see if we can get some off-label use of your go go gadget sex arm?”

 

...

 

 

As he lays boneless on the floor, Clint would like to personally thank the estate of whatever mad scientist that cooked up something as crazy as a super soldier serum, because god damn.

 

Not that Bucky or his magnificent dick – and it was magnificent, he briefly thought he wouldn't be able to handle it, but Clint is capable of anything he puts his mind to – needs any help, not by a long shot, but he has to admit, being fucked into a wall while being held up by nothing by another man's strength definitely tops his list of sexcapades.

 

"You alright there cowboy," Bucky asks, nudging Clint's thigh with his barefoot.  
  
Clint laughs, finally opening his eyes with a smirk, "Haven't been fucked like that since grade school."  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he finds the strength to disentangle himself from the cuddle puddle they collapsed into and wanders into the bathroom.  
  
"I'm just gonna stay right here," Clint calls, gingerly scooting his bare ass across the carpet until he lay flush on the floor, "until my legs start working again."  
  
"I did all the work, asshole!" Bucky shouts back, and Clint can't stop the dopey smile from spreading across his face.  
  
This should feel weird, right? Not the whole Fucked Up Against the Wall thing, because all is fair in war and boning, but Bucky wasn't some stranger he took him from the bar. Bucky is the first real, genuine friend he's made since Natasha, which is a good long while, and in his line of work, you hold those types of relationships close to the chest.  
  
Clink liked strangers. There were no expectations, no need for names, no morning afters. He liked lovers he didn't have to love, a Mr. Right Now, it was simple. Uncomplicated.  
  
Feelings are complicated, but this is Bucky. The man is a force of nature, the product of science, technology that fought his way through a World War and broke through decades of brainwashing with nothing more than his brute mental fortitude.

 

He is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object, and he's sweet on him.  
  
Bucky stumbles out of the bathroom, halfheartedly throwing a wet washcloth down the hall without warning. Clint hears it coming, and without even opening his eyes he catches it midair. He casually flips him the bird and pairs it with wry smirk. The guy might not have superpowers, but what he does have is years of practice behind his cat-like reflexes.

 

Bucky has managed to find his boxers, and slips into them before tumbling to the floor, resting his head on Clint's hip with a satisfied smile.

  
"So," Clint sighs, eyes half lidded as he knots a hand in Bucky's hair, "That's some arm you got on you."  
  
This was strangely companionable, like Bucky hadn't just held the entirety of Clint's weight with one arm while, and it bears repeating, almost fucking him through the wall.  
  
"I did warn you," Bucky laughed, turning his head to look at at Clint, "You do realize that Stark will be impossible to live with now, seeing as how he figured us out before we did.”

 

Clint laughs, and his overworked muscles scream out in protest but he can't seem to care, because this can work to their advantage if they play their cards right.

 

“Well, that is unacceptable. It will only serve to inflate his ego,” He manages to screw a solemn expression onto his face as he takes Bucky's hand in his, “James Buchanan Barnes, would you do me the honor of fucking with Tony Stark with me?”

 

Without missing a beat, Bucky squeezes his hand and replies, “Clint Francis Barton, I would love nothing more.”

 

Clint's eyes narrow at the use of his middle name, and Bucky's resolve breaks and leaves him a giggling mess.

 

Great, The Winter Soldier is giggling at him.

 

He's going to fucking kill Kate.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a wreck, but I liked it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tash and Sam come back, and Tony is so on to the Sniper Bros, they don't even know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clintasha is my brotp, and I find their strictly platonic friendship between opposite genders beautiful.

For the first time, in a long time, Clint is perfectly content with laying flat on his back and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling as the seconds drag on to morning.

He had fully intended on actually getting some shuteye — under Kate's very loud and very explicit orders — but that plan went out the window when Tash broke radio silence with her ETA. She and Sam have been on radio black out for weeks now, and he knows, deep down somewhere in a far corner of her heart, she missed his usual barrage of daily emails.

He misses her.

Once upon a time, he would have been unreasonably jealous that Tasha went out on assignment with anyone other than him. She and Clint only worked together — every agent and operative had their campfire songs and water cooler gossip about Black Widow and Hawkeye — they came as a packaged pair and they kicked every single ass from Austria to Zimbabwe.

Logically, he's well aware it was his choice to take a step back after the whole Loki Situation, and if he's going to be honest with himself at — he turns his head slightly to check the time — 4:58 in the goddamn morning, he really misses her more and more every time she leaves him with her customary kiss on the forehead.

Tasha is Clint's favorite bro.

He's really in no position to complain, however. Bucky is currently firmly pressed against his side, thick thighs a tangled mess between the sheets and Clint's leg, metal fingers firmly anchored to his hip. Turns out, the big bad Winter Soldier is a grabby, stage five clinger in his sleep, and Clint is incredibly flattered that Bucky feels secure enough to sleep so deeply next to him.

He runs his fingers lightly across the ridge of Bucky's shoulder blades, calloused finger pads ghosting over the broad plane of his back, dipping into the groove of his neck to disappear into his hairline, only to about face and retrace the path of goosebumps he left behind.

Every meditative lap his fingers make pulls another sleepy thought from the foggy ether. He wonders if plants have feelings, and if Vision dreams of electric sheep. Surely something must rhyme with purple, is slurple a word? He thinks it should be.

He contemplates whether Bucky would be Beatles man or an Elvis man — he himself is a Stones person — and he's going to put his money on Elvis. Or better yet, Johnny Cash. He can see Bucky being a big fan of the man in black.

It fits him.

He leaves himself a mental note to introduce Bucky to Johnny Cash in the morning. They'll start with At Folsom Prison, and then maybe he'll throw him for a loop and throw Ill Communication into the mix.

You know, for Brooklyn.

He turns a heavy gaze downwards with a smirk; Bucky is firmly on Team Tighty Whitey and god bless him for it because he has an ass chiseled to the proportions of Adonis, if Adonis ran a half marathon every morning and really worked it on leg day. Do gods even need to work out? Thor works out, but is that because he really needs to? Thor probably just likes the sweat and camaraderie, it's not like he needs strength to pick up his hammer because he's worthy and everything, but does his worthiness need to be recharged? If he does an unworthy thing, does he have to double up on the worthiness to make up for it? Does the hammer feel heavier or lighter as per Thor's worthiness level?

Bucky stirs, Clint stills.

He feels Bucky's lips moving on his chest and in his sleep starved stupor belatedly remembers he had taken his ears out hours ago.

"Lemme get my ears," Clint says, and he goes to lean across the bed for his aids, but is stopped by Bucky's tightening grip.

Metal fingers dance across Clint's side, a quick tap followed by a slow drag of his fingers and three more taps in quick succession.

_Wait_ , he taps.

While nothing could quite top finding out Bucky could sign, the fact he knew both American and International morse code as well came as an awesome surprise. They held full conversations — silent and secret only to them — while holding hands and hit Clint's emotions in all the right places.

Sometimes, Clint finds he takes solace in the silence. The steady beat of Bucky's pulse under his fingers and the lingering scent of classic Old Spice is both grounding and comforting on nights like these when he's long accepted he's not getting any sleep.

Bucky Barnes in the morning is a sight worth waking up for. Gone is the sass and snark he wears like a suit of armor, replaced with heavily lidded eyes and a sleep stained drawl. If it were up to him, they'd never leave this bed, they'd just lay here, half naked and dead to the world.

Another flurry of taps race across his hip, asking, " _Sleep_?"

Clint shakes his head, poking Bucky in the ribs just to watch him squirm before his fingers reply, " _Can't. Tash,_ "

Bucky nods in response, " _Soon_ ," his fingers say.

Clint hums happily, not all that secretly elated that Natasha and Bucky became buddy buddy, because he couldn't find himself being the creamy center stuck between two huffy Russian assassin cookies. They regularly try to kill each other while sparring anyway, he couldn't imagine if they actually hated each other. Natasha still hasn't forgiven him for shooting her, but she has forgiven Clint for worse, he knows she'll come around.

Eventually.

Without warning, Bucky sits straight up, a knife in hand — where he pulls it out of, Clint doesn't know. He is going to assume Bucky, much like Natasha, is well versed in the ancient and exquisite art of Hammer Space — staring warily at the open bedroom door like a guard dog on watch.

Clint takes the opportunity to scramble for his aides, struggling with the case before slipping them into his ears, heart beating wildly as his brain tries to catch up and process what Bucky had already heard.

A moment passes before Natasha slides into view, lips twisted into a proud smirk — and wow, is Clint impressed Bucky heard her coming. Ears in or not Tash still manages to sneak up on him all too often — as she leans against the door frame, "Well, fancy seeing you here James."

Bucky slumps, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping the knife on the bedside table with a loud clatter, "Shit, don't _do_ that, I could'a stabbed you."

Clint barely has time to react before strong arms were dragging him back across the bed. He can't stop the sappy smile from settling on his face as Bucky burrows closer, and his heart melts into a puddle when he feels soft lips leaving soft kisses through rough stubble.

She gives them the smallest of shrugs, before gracefully crossing the room, abandoning all social norms and slipping into the bed, leaving Clint happily sandwiched between his two favorite people.

"You're back!" Clint hums, "Don't ever leave me again."

Bucky flicks his ear, trying his best to settle his face into a scowl but he can't hide the smile behind his eyes, "Oh, I see how it is. Natasha comes back and now I'm chopped liver."

"Aw, don't be like that Pumpkin," Clint singsongs, "You knew what you were getting into. Tasha is my platonic-life mate."

"Yeah yeah," Bucky mumbles, leaning over to give Natasha a quick kiss on the cheek, "Good to have ya back, doll. He's your problem now."

Clint takes the high road and sticks out his tongue, blatantly ignoring Bucky as he rolls out of bed with all the grace he himself would never have so soon after waking up. He cranes his neck to appreciate the view as Bucky makes his way out of his bedroom, loudly banging around the kitchen as he sets about his morning routine.

"So," Natasha begins, settling in against the headboard as Clint sprawls across the bed and rests his head in her lap, "I see that you finally told James about your feelings?"

Clint's sighs happily, unashamed of the goofy smile that spreads across his face, "Sure did. I told him I was crazy about him, he said he was sweet on me, and then he carried me like a caveman and straight up drilled me into the wall."

Natasha just shakes her head, resting a hand in his hair as she hums, "I hope you both know what you're getting yourselves into to. Feelings complicate things, I don't want to see either of you jeopardized."

"Aw, Tash. You do love me."

She just smiles, and replies, "Love is for children, but yes. I do care for your happiness and wellbeing, as well as James," she pauses, a slight crease to her brow as she looks out the bedroom door, in a hushed tone she continues, "I still don't think it wise for either of you to be leaning so heavily on each other, it's reckless."

"Yeah, but Tash," Clint replies, sitting up next to her to be able to meet her eye, "If anyone is going to understand being insane in the membrane, it'd be him right? We have matching baggage."

"Have you spoken to him about it?"

Clint replies with silence, and he can feel Natasha's gaze steadily boring through him. Shifting uncomfortably, he shoots her a halfhearted grin and small shrug, shrinking back as her gaze morphs into a glare.

Aw, man. He knows that look. It's the 'you idiot' look, melded with 'what were you thinking' with just a dash of 'what have you done now' thrown in for taste.

"I'm not gonna fuck this up," Clint promises, looking out the bedroom door as the smell of coffee wafts in, "This isn't just about sex, and don't get me wrong, the sex is awesome, but it's not clouding my judgement. We know what we're doing and we know what we want."

Natasha looks at him momentarily before nodding, taking Clint's face in her hands and kissing his forehead, "Alright," she concedes, "I'll be sure to give James the shovel talk then."

Bucky wanders back into the bedroom, leaving the coffee pot on the bedside table before turning to the closet to find some comfortable that he can go do supersoldier things with Steve in. He shimmies into a pair of black basketball shorts and a black hoodie, turning to raise a questioning eyebrow as Clint chuckles to himself.

"What?"

Clint elbows Natasha, "Look, it's my Man in Black."

"Black is a good color on you James," Natasha says, matching Clint's smirk with her own.

Bucky just rolls his eyes, crossing the room and bending down to hold Clint's chin, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Clint melts, and he doesn't even care a little that Natasha isn't ever going to let him live this down.

"Rest up Galahad," Bucky says, "Fill her in on Operation Sample The Peril."

"You got it Lancelot," Clint says through a yawn, wiggling his way deeper under the covers and dragging Natasha down with him.

"Farewell, sweet Concord," Bucky says with a smirk, closing the door behind him.

"Okay, I stand corrected," Natasha says, "You two dorks are perfect for each other."

Clint turns to her and beams, "Okay, so it's like this..."

•••

Tony was right, about Buck and Clint, and he is being _so_ insufferably smug about his, as he put it, vastly superior deduction skills, that he now has Jarvis keeping score.

For research purposes, Steve is told. A one time occurrence can be a fluke, but twice was a development of a trend. He is simply collecting data, for at the end of the day he is still a man of science, and he would be doing a great dishonor to the scientific method if he failed to document his findings.

As it stands, Tony is very proud of being right, so Steve let's him have it.

The man is lucky Steve's always been a sucker for mouthy brunettes.

While Tony slept off an all night marathon workshop session — Pepper has been hounding him for the newest prototype for the annual investors conference, and while Steve would have preferred him to come to bed last night, the reality is that Pepper scares him and he didn't want to incur her wrath if Tony didn't meet his deadline because of him — Steve ambles off the elevator and into the gym to find Bucky waiting for him.

Gripping either side of the steel reinforced rafters that hold a row of punching bags — a few Super Soldier Resistant, Tony spared no expense — is Bucky, who shoots him an easy, albeit upside down, grin as Steve crosses the gym.

"You know, Barton really seems to be rubbing off on you," Steve says as he drops his duffle on the bench and begins rummaging for tape.

"Yeah yeah," Bucky replies, shifting his grip and gracefully swinging to his feet, "So, listen, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Steve freezes, heart in his throat, his gaze is instantly caught by light reflecting off metal and Steve's breath catches on instinct.

The arm.

The familiar, overwhelming guilt tightens its grip, and Steve isn't sure why he can't shake it, especially now that Bucky is here, in the flesh. After everything — the war, his fall, the decades spent in and out of cyrostasis, DC and the cat and mouse game they played in the months that followed — against all odds and any sort of reason or logic, Bucky is here in the now.

If he's going to be honest, Bucky was the real reason he went to war. He didn't trust the serum at all going into it, but it was the means to an end, and that end was making sure this jerk didn't do something stupid and get himself killed overseas. Not that Bucky wasn't capable, the man was a natural; he had an eye to rival Hawkeyes and could clear a clean headshot at over 800 meters back when the military didn't place much emphasis on the strategic importance of snipers.

He still has nightmares about it, reliving that day with every graphic detail: Bucky grabbing his shield without even a moments of hesitation, getting blown out of the side of the train, slipping through his fingers as he fell into the white abyss.

The look on his face when he realized there was no coming back from this, that he was cashing in his chips and that's all she wrote.

Bucky stuck his neck out for him for _years_ , and now that Steve was finally in a position to do the same, he failed him by leading him to his death. If Steve hadn't been so stubborn, so insistent on doing his part for the war effort, maybe Bucky would have came home. He would have been safe and sound and could have avoided all of the FUBAR bullshit triggered by blindly following Steve into the jaws of death.

Instead, he was molded into the perfect soldier. He went thru torture and brainwashing, had his humanity torn from him, reconditioned and repurposed as a weapon with a pulse. Maybe if Steve had just listened, stayed behind and collected scrap with the red wagon they used to drag around as kids, he would have saved Bucky in the long run.

His selfishness in that moment, ditching his best friend the night before he went to war, set off a chain on events that dragged loudly behind him. The global socioeconomic landscape would be dramatically different. JFK wouldn't have met his end in Dallas. He would have spared Tony from having to identify the remains of his parents, or what was left of them, after they we're pulled from the twisted wreckage of their car.

His heart begins to pound, loud and rapid as he imagines Tony at 17 — still just a kid — forced to look upon the wrangled body of his parents. Howard, when he knew him, was a good man and he sees a lot of him in Tony; the pride in his work, his expansive and ever restless mind. He doesn't know what happened to Howard after the war, what changed him, but he knows that the Howard Stark responsible for Captain America isn't the same man that raised Tony.

He wishes Tony knew him, he likes to think they would'a really gotten on well.

He's read what the history books have written about him: Captain America altruistically sacrificed himself by plunging into the frigid depths of the ocean, taking the threat of The Bomb with him. How his sacrifice became a rallying cry, a symbol for the Allies to get behind and push the Axis forces to their knees.

It's all wrong, because he didn't go down with the ship for the love of country or to win a fucking war, he went down for Bucky Barnes, because it was his fault that his best friend, his brother, was dead.

Bucky said 'till the end of the line, and he was going to guide that plane into the station.

He doesn't like to think about it.

"Hey," Bucky's voice edges into his train of thought, a hand warm and solid on his shoulder and Steve is sent hurtling back into the present, "You with me Stevie? Come on," he says as he guides him to a bench, "sit down, breath."

Steve lets out a shuddering breath, focusing on Bucky's hand on his shoulder because Bucky is here. He's here, and he finds himself laughing because even after everything, Bucky is still clapping a steadying hand on his shoulder and Steve all at once feels small again.

It's so familiar. They've been here a hundred times before, Bucky at his right, his constant physical contact grounding him, bringing him back to his senses. Bucky would never come at him condescendingly, never rub his bloody nose in the mess he's made nor admonish him for, once again, scrapping with someone twice his size. He'd just sigh, and remind him he didn't have to do anything alone.

"Yeah," Steve manages, huffing out a deep breath and with it, some of the guilt releases its grip on his heart, "Fuck. Bucky, I'm so sorry—"

"No Steve, I'm sorry," Bucky replies, his voice even and firm as he shifts to force Steve to meet his eye, "I'm sorry it took me so long to say this. You gotta stop blaming yourself for what happened, none of it — being captured by Hydra, my dumbass falling off the train, the whole Winter Soldier snafu — none of it is your fault."

No, he doesn't understand, "But Buck—"

"Steve," Bucky says firmly, tightening his grip on his shoulder, "You need to hear this. When Hydra captured our unit and started pulling men out of cages, I made the choice to raise hell so they would take me instead. Those were my men, and I stand by that choice," — Steve nods because this he understands, he would gladly sacrifice himself for his team if it came down to it — "And I sure as shit wasn't about to let you go running around Europe startin' shit with Nazis without me. You couldn'a stopped me from coming, Howlies or not."

"I could'a stayed home like you told me to."

At this, Bucky's face cracks open into a wide grin and he throws his arm across Steve's shoulders, looping it around his neck, "When have you _ever_ just done what I told you to do? If you'd'a listened to me, I still would'a been caught up shit creek behind enemy lines with my ass strapped to a table. Right now, I would still be under Hydra's thumb, and DC would'a turned out a whole lot different if it wasn't you who hadda stop me," Bucky quiets, then continues softly, "You gotta let it go Steve. The guilt'll kill ya if ya let it. You gotta trust me on that."

"I just —"

"Steve, look. I lost my arm, my agency, I lost who Bucky Barnes was and for a while there I couldn't reconcile the memories I had from before the war with knowing I was the Asset. I can't take back what happened, but I'm not bitter about it. If anything, I'm bitter that I got this second chance when so many kids from the neighborhood ended up gold stars in their ma's windows."

"How are you so okay with all of this?" Steve asks, dumbfounded that Bucky can be so calm and rational. If anyone deserves to be mad at the world, it's Bucky.

"The world breaks everyone Steve," Bucky replies with a small shrug, "For a while there, I wasn't okay. I'd never gone that long without being wiped, and when the memories started coming back, I didn't know if they were mine or not. I just kept having dreams of this scrawny little blonde kid, and this guy as big as a brick house with his voice. I let you and Sam catch up to me when I realized they were the same guy. Trust me, you'd'a never found me if I didn't wanna be found."

Steve is silent, voice caught in his throat. Bucky let him find him, let him take him home. He isn't the same guy he left behind at the world of tomorrow, but how could he be? Steve isn't the same, the world changed him the same way it changed Bucky, and he's right. They're strongest in their broken parts, but still, somehow they managed to pull themselves back together again.

"I mean, when you look at it, I got a pretty sweet deal. I'm in the future with my best friend, I've got this awesome arm with a million and one uses, and the serum ensures that a whole new generation is privy to this handsome mug. So end this pity party you've been throwing yourself for the past few decades and enjoy the fucking future with me."

Steve laughs, because of course Bucky would just brush off everything and try to tug a smile out of him. Bucky doesn't blame him. He just knows.

"Sucks about them bums tho," Bucky sighs, breaking the comfortable silence that fell between them, "We never got to see them take the World Series from the fucking Yankees."

They were both keenly aware of how strange Brooklyn felt now, and Steve knew right away how hurt Bucky would be to find Ebbet's Field long demolished, his beloved Dodgers playing in California, of all places. He wasn't anticipating Bucky taking personal offense to the fact that not only are the Yankees still playing, but they were an absolute powerhouse, and having an actual temper tantrum over it.

Hence, the super solider resistant punching bags.

"We got that pennant win tho," Steve says, nudging Bucky's elbow with his, "You remember sneaking into game 2?"

Bucky snorts, "I remember you shimmying your scrawny ass under a fence, and I got stuck when I followed you."

"I had to dig you out because you wouldn't let me rip your jacket."

"They won that game," Bucky says softly, "I remember being so certain that was the year we were gonna finally gonna win the series, and then the damn Yankees came back and swept house."

"That was 1941."

"The last series game we ever saw," Bucky sighs, turning his head to meet Steve's gaze, "Feels like five years ago don't it?"

Steve hums, and it's nice to finally have someone on the same page as him. He's been out of the ice for years now, and he still finds himself bewildered by the present. It had taken him some time to be fully comfortable with being publicly affectionate with Tony, not because he was ashamed to be seen with another man — let alone a man as brilliant in mind and soul as Tony — but because, in his time, a relationship like theirs was incredibly illegal.

Not that he had much experience in skirting the law like Bucky had — it goes both ways, there was nothing Bucky could get by Steve, not that Steve hadn't always known about Bucky's preference for men, that was a conversation held an eternity ago — but the need to look over his shoulder was a hard habit to break.

"So, you and Clint huh?" Steve says, bringing the conversation to lighter grounds, "I knew the two of you would get on."

Bucky laughs, but the hair that hooks behind his ears can't hide the flush that spreads across his neck. When he looks up, Steve sees a smile he hasn't seen in decades, not since they were both knobby kneed teenagers. It wasn't the usual charming grin held in place more by instinct than anything else. It takes the edge off the hardened shadow that has settled behind his eyes, and for a moment Steve gets a glimpse of his Bucky, cavalier and confident.

"Yeah, me and Clint. What can I say, I must have a complex for chasing after reckless, tragic blondes."

Bucky stands, pulling off his hoodie, and Steve finds that he isn't overwhelmed by the sight of metal meeting twisted, jagged scar tissue. Bucky's okay, he's okay.

He tosses the hoodie on the bench and takes a step back, spreading his arms wide, "Alright, on your feet Rogers and give a man a hug. I don't care how big you are, I'm still not above taking one by force."

Steve isn't given time to react, Bucky simply drags him to his feet and pulls him into a bear hug, laughing as he lifts Steve off of his feet and swings him side to side like he used to do when they were kids.

"I love ya, you punk," Bucky mumbles into his shoulder as he drops him to his feet, "Now, are we gonna beat the hell out of each other or not? 'Cause I got outta bed and put pants on for this."

Steve smiles because everything is going to be fine.

•••

It's nearly noon when Tony wakes alone in his bed, and he decides that he's not a fan. Waking up alone where he passed out in his workshop with a screwdriver still in his hand is one thing, but his bed is too big and too empty without one Steve Rogers taking up far too much room and hogging all of the blankets.

He doesn't like it one bit.

He's shooting off a quick email to Pepper — Yes, he's been working on the new prototype. No, she doesn't need to involve Steve to ensure he stays properly motivated. Yes, he has replaced his caffeine intake with sleep and yes, that is something she can verify with Steve — as he steps off the elevator to the common area.

Steve and Sam are both sitting at the kitchen island, blue prints littered between them. Steve has his Captain face on, which means whatever Sam and Natasha went looking for in Odessa was fruitful.

Natasha is sitting on the couch, her undivided attention commandeered by Clint, who is currently has his head in her lap and his feet tucked under Bucky's thigh.

It unnerves him how fondly and warmly two of the arguably most dangerous people in the building look at Clint, and he supposes he's not all that jealous that they're so absorbed with the blonde on their laps that don't even look up from their cuddle puddle to acknowledge his presence.

While wary of Bucky at first — because really, who wouldn't be? — now it's like Bucky has always been a part of their little Super Spy Club. It took a load off Steve's shoulders, which was great because a worried Steve was a lot like dealing with a poor little puppy who lost his way home.

There was a lot of sighing and staring out of windows, and Tony could swear he could hear the saddest music ever playing in the background. He didn't secretly find it adorable, he does have a heart, Pepper would vouch for that, maybe even under oath in a court of law.

He may or may not makes more noise than necessary as he pours himself a cup of coffee, rather pleased with himself when Natasha looks up briefly to shoot him the smallest of nods — finally, thank you, some acknowledgement — before the three completely drop their spoken conversation in exchange for a flurry of hand movements and rapidly shifting facial expressions.

Huh.

Tony narrows his eyes, he had repeatedly warned Steve about the Sniper Bros and their potential shenanigans, and now look. Natasha hasn't even been back for a few hours and they've already roped her into their dastardly schemes.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping, Tony?" Steve asks, and Tony is pulled from his thoughts.

"I agreed to go to bed," Tony replies, settling in next to Steve, "We never discussed sleep nor how long I would be required to actually stay in bed."

"I thought we agreed no more loopholes," Steve sighs.

"I said no such thing, Jarvis?"

"You said you would think about it, Sir."

"Thanks J, you always have my back," Tony doesn't even look up from his phone, fingers flying across the screen before smiling brightly at Sam, "So, you and Natasha seem no worse for wear."

Sam shrugs, leaning back in his seat, "Just recon, nothing exciting."

"Sounds boring," Tony says, but his attention is drawn to the three on the couch and the quick glances Natasha keeps shooting him are making him a bit uneasy.

The Sniper Bros are one thing; Tony is confident he can handle whatever juvenile high jinks Barnes and Barton can cook up — to be honest, he's shocked he hasn't found any of his tools in jello yet — but throwing Natasha into the mix added a clear and present danger to Tony's currently sound mind and body.

He's staring when Natasha catches his eye and she smiles, with teeth and everything, before turning her attention back to Bucky, and if that wasn't one of the most unsettling and, quite frankly, terrifying things he's ever bore witness to, he wasn't sure what would be.

Steve is going to call him paranoid, but he doesn't care. They're up to something, he knows it.

And you know what, challenge fucking accepted. He's on to them, and if those two grown ass man children think that just because Natasha is back they'll be able to pull a fast one on him well, he'll fucking show them.

He's got this — he has Jarvis and that puts him at an _incredible_ advantage — and technically speaking, it's not spying so much as it was light recon.

Steve, the tactical genius that he is, should be able to understand that much, a good defense is the best offense after all.

He smiles smugly into his coffee as he turns his attention back to not understanding most of the military jargon that gets passed so easily between Sam and Steve, and makes plans to conspire with Jarvis after he's woken up a bit more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my grandfather was a WW2 vet from old school Brooklyn, and I'm trying to incorporate his manner of speech in Steve and Bucky. I'm a native NYer (Long Island and all over the boroughs) and my accent is thick as hell, but writing dialogue like that phonetically looks like a crazy person wrote it so I went more for inflections and smashing words together. 
> 
> My grandfather was also a die hard Brooklyn Dodgers fan, and was always very bitter about the God Damn Yankees.
> 
> It why I'm a Mets fan.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the absolute worst sad panda.

Logically, Clint knows it'll always be Natasha to wrangle him in, but this time is different. This time, he can't feel anything but the cold apathy that sinks into his core, and the methodical compulsion to follow his orders and complete his mission.

This is all wrong, and he screams at himself to stop because it's her and he would never but his body continues on with such fluid efficiency that for the first time in his life he hates that he's good at his job.

He moves with such militant purpose, and she matches him at every step, but she's hurt and Clint can't feel anything as he pulls his knife and advances.

He knows they've trained for this, he knows her every move before she does but it's the fear in her eyes, fear he's never once seen in her, that terrifies him but he can't fucking stop.

"Clint!" She shouts, and he grabs her hair, exposing her neck.

The knife is so close.

She struggles, but he's stronger than her and she knows it too. Natasha never goes down without a fight and for once he wishes she could just admit defeat and make this easier on both of them.

He's so so fucking sorry, but he can't stop.

"Honey Bunny!"

Wait, what?

Metal fingers wind around the blade of his knife, and he watches with dumbstruck awe as it crumbles as easily as paper in its grip. It falls to the ground, and Natasha has him pinned to his back — when the fuck did she get to be so strong? — but he can't stop staring at the metal pressing against his chest and none of this makes any sense because Natasha doesn't have brown hair and when the fuck did they get into a bed and oh.

Oh no. No no no.

"Come on, Honey Bunny look at me."

This isn't the hellicarrier, and that isn't Natasha; it's Bucky and he looks over at the crumbled Bowie knife with absolute horror because he almost did it.

He could've killed Bucky.

He can't breath, but he keeps his blurry gaze locked on Bucky's, as if his eyes and his eyes alone hold the answers to universe. Bucky scrambles off of him to give him space, leaving a warm hand on his chest as he slowly yet silently talks him through deep inhales and exhales until the world stops spinning and he can focus on anything other than his own stammering heart.

"Aw, fuck me." He's shouting, he must be shouting. "Fuck, Bucky I'm so fucking sorry man I—"

Bucky simply shakes his head and drags him between his legs, encompassing Clint's sweaty hand between his own and his heart and enveloping himself around Clint's body. He focuses on Bucky's beating heart under his hand and the warmth of his body as he tries to stamp out the freezing cold that reaches down to the deepest depths of his fucked up psyche.

Bucky begins to hum harmoniously, steady and stormless, from deep in his chest. Three long rumbles and two short thrums, over and over again until the tension releases from his shoulders and Clint can finally fucking breath.

Well, that was one hell of an introduction to The Clint Barton Psycho Circus. Step right up folks and see Human Disaster Clint Barton destroy everything good in his life.

He feels so stupid for thinking that maybe he was starting a new phase in his life where he could get some sleep like a fucking normal person, but no, of course not. The universe is a cruel mistress who doesnt even have the common courtesy to buy a guy dinner before bending him over and fucking him in the ass.

He looks up when the humming suddenly stops, and he chokes out a relieved sob when he spots Natasha — bed headed and sleep worn — standing apprehensively in his doorway as if waiting for permission.

They're speaking, but Clint is impatient, huffing loudly in frustration, "Stop acting like a god damn stranger. Come remind me that you're alive and get in my bed."

He's so exhausted yet never wants to sleep again. Nightmares are one thing, but almost slicing the throat of his boyfriend? That was a whole new level of fucked up that Clint wasn't even aware he was capable of.

He feels the bed sink next to him as Tash slides under the covers and takes his free hand with her own. Everything is okay, he repeats in his head, over and over like if he says it enough, he can click his heels together and make it so.

He feels like a child, but he doesn't fucking care, he's lost his shame and dignity a long time ago. He has Bucky to his left, Tasha to his right and neither of them are dead and that's all that matters.

He and Tash have danced this dance a hundred times before, and he doesn't need to understand how she knows exactly when he needs her, but she's always here when he wakes up and he is beyond grateful. In this moment, despite the cold ache he can't ever seem to shake, he feels safe, warm and dare he say loved but at the same time so wholly undeserved of it.

"Hand me my ears Tasha," Clint mumbles, using every once of will power he has left to pry himself from Bucky's chest and sits up crossed legged on the bed.

She hands him his case before taking his face in between her hands, brown eyes piercing his, searching for what Clint can never tell. Seemingly satisfied, she give him the briefest of nods and places a kiss on his knotted brow, before turning back to Bucky.

"— and no more weapons in the bedroom."

"Oh my god, Tash," Clint groans, dropping his head onto Tasha's shoulder, "Can you not with," he pauses, waving a hand between the three of them, "you know, all of that shit right now. Please."

Clint collapses back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and curses every god of every religion, known or otherwise, for fucking up a good thing he had going.

Bucky had stopped slinking back to his floor most nights, and somehow the few belongings he owned managed to find a home at Clint's. He didn't have a drawer, or a side of the closet, just a go bag full of weapons under the bed and the rest of his possessions tucked in next to Clint's.

Then Clint had to take a speedy upgrade from night terrors to sleep stabbing. So much for keeping his shit together.

Thankfully, it's Bucky who speaks first, his voice low and level, "If you apologize again, I swear — and Natasha you're my witness — I'm gonna put ya head thru the fuckin' wall. Ya ain't got nothin' to be sorry for, got that Honey Bunny?"

Clint turns his head to find Bucky staring at him, his eyes dark, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He looks so young, and Clint wonders how many times Steve had seen this same expression as kids. The Winter Soldier, the ghost story they would tell probie agents around the water cooler, is looking at him with such heartfelt empathy, and Clint isn't sure how to handle it.

"I almost killed you."

"Sweetheart," Clint, despite his best efforts, can't hide the doofy, love sick smile that slips across his face at the word 'sweetheart' and how good it sounds as it tumbles out of Bucky's mouth, "I would'a loved to see you try," When he doesn't respond, Bucky nudges Clint's shoulder with his foot, "Hey, come on Clint, don't be like that. Look at me."

The use of his first name has Clint raising an eyebrow — Bucky never uses his proper name in conversation — and he affords him a quick glance.

Bucky is facing him, still shamelessly in his briefs, socked feet tucked under his crossed legs. The look on his face is so damn endearing, so open and honest, that Clint's heart squeezes tightly in his chest because he doesn't deserve this man.

He doesn't deserve either of them.

"I know ya probably don't wanna hear this, but it's the truth. It wasn't ya fault."

Clint rolls his eyes, shoving his face back into the relative safety of his forearms, mumbling, "What? Killing my coworkers or holding a knife to your throat?"

"Both, I guess. Listen, when it comes to understanding brainwashing, I'm your guy."

"You shouldn't stay here anymore, you're not safe around me. I'm— "

"Well that's bullshit Honey Bunny, and you know it," Bucky says, "because I've never felt safer than when I'm here next to you and I'm sure Natasha'll always want you on her six, ain't that right Doll?"

"Sap."

"I know exactly what you need, Clint," Natasha says slowly, stretching across the bed to grab something off the bedside table.

Clint peeks out from behind his arm as he hears the tell tale taps of his iPhone — fuck Starkphones, Clint was a loud and proud Apple fanboy — before letting out a loud and dramatic sigh.

"I just changed the password," he huffs, "You need to stop commiting acts of hackery to my phone, you don't know what's in there."

"It's not hacking if you stick to the same ten passwords," she chides, easily dodging his half hearted attempts to grab his phone.

"Fine, but don't go poking around in my camera roll. It's a cornucopia of dick picks."

She glances over at Bucky for confirmation — and since there's really no point in lying to Natasha — he offers her an affirmative nod, "Gross, Clint."

"Come on, Tash. What're you —" his whine is immediately silenced by a soft roll of cymbals and genuine smile breaks across his tear stained cheeks, "Oh, [fuck yes](http://youtu.be/the7gV99YRI)."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Natasha simply glances down the Clint with knowing quirk to her lips.

Clint bolts straight up in bed, clutching a hand to his heart as he begins to sing wildly off key, "Saw you stretched out in roooooom Ten O Niiiiiine, with a smile on your face and a tear right in your eye," he turns around, tucking his legs underneath him to take both Tash and Bucky's hands, squeezing tightly, "Ooooooh, couldn't see to get a line on you," he catches Bucky's eye, and brings their interlocked hands to his lips, "my sweet honey love."

Clint relaxes into the second verse, the frozen itch that crept thru his body easing away as he melts into the blankets because the Rolling Stones — The Worlds Greatest Rock and Roll Band — was coming to take him back home.

He focuses on Jagger's gravely, cigarette stained baritone as the song carries over into the chorus, unable to keep the smile off his face as he mimics Keith Richards playful dance up and down the frets of his air guitar like he's done a hundred times before. It's warm, familiar, a reflection of every single good time and happy memory he holds close to his heart and let's the music work its magic and heal his weary soul.

By the time Richards slides in with that smooth solo at the end — and man oh man, could he play a mean guitar — he feels a million times better and wonders why he can't remember just to turn up the Stones in the first place. Then he remembers the crippling fear and the unrelenting impulse to fight his way out of the tangle of blankets just to end up hiding out in the air vents like some sort of feral child until the panic subsides and he can take control of his brain again.

He finally opens his eyes as Shine a Light fades into Soul Survivor and turns to Bucky with a grimace, grabbing his hand and bringing it to his lips.

"I'm sorry that I tried to stab you Pumpkin."

The simultaneous eye roll both Bucky and Natasha give him looks practiced, but he assumes it just comes with the territory, Clint Barton is a hard man to handle at the best of times, and it really speaks for both of them that they're still firmly planted at his side.

"Oh, blow it out your barrack bag Barton, I don't wanna hear it."

Clint snorts, grateful for the easy banter, "You know, sometimes I think that you're just a regular guy with an old school charm, and then you say some old timey shit like that, and then I remember."

"Yeah, yeah. You love it," Bucky says, playfully shoving Clint's bent knees with his free hand, "So we copacetic?"

Clint nods, "Yeah, we're good."

"You want to watch a movie?" Natasha asks, a sly smile on her face.

"Oh my god, yes. Let's watch Dr. No. Nothing cheers me up like Connery Bond."

"Anything you want Clint," she responds softly.

Most people have always said that Tasha was a stone cold, black hearted killer — and don't get him wrong, she absolutely was — but here in his bedroom, in these quiet moments, the femme fatale facade betrays her.

She cares.

"Give us a minute, will ya Doll?" Bucky asks.

She turns to level Bucky a look seeped in unspoken but clearly understood meaning before nodding and kissing Clint on the forehead.

"Don't be long."

Even after all these years, he's still impressed on how silently she moved.

When the door closes behind her, Bucky grabs Clint and drags him across the bed onto his chest, mumbling into his hair, "You alright Honey Bunny?"

Clint shrugs halfheartedly, "Not really. I seem to have this funny habit of trying to kill the people I care most about. You should get out while you can."

"Nope, don't wanna hear it. You and me are two fucked up peas in a banged up pod, sweetheart. I remember everything I did when I was under Hydra. I killed a whole lotta people, good decent people and I know I should feel bad but I don't. I want to, but at this point, I just accept it's something that's been conditioned outta me. Some days I feel more machine than anything else, I know that I should feel something but —"

"Pumpkin," Clint interrupts, "You had your brain zapped into submission by magical nazis, you can't blame yourself for it."

"So you're saying that someone can't be held responsible for what they did while brainwashed?"

Clint frowns, "That's absolutely not what I said."

"If I can't blame myself for what I did under Hydra, you can't blame yourself for what happened when you were under Loki's influence, it's only fair Honey Bunny."

Clint sits up, his frown deepening at the clearly victorious smile on Bucky's face, "I can't believe you just pulled some reverse psychology on me. I am forbidding you and Tash from hanging out with Sam anymore, this is bullshit."

"I won't fight ya on that, I think Sam is still pissy that I destroyed his car."

"Come on, before Tash starts the movie without us."

•••

Clint and Natasha had fallen asleep, and Bucky took this opportunity to steal himself to the roof for a cigarette.

He hated to admit it really, but Bucky was equal parts impressed and humbled that Clint was able to make it as far as grabbing his own knife, let alone pinning him to the bed and pressing it to his neck. Either he was getting soft the longer he was away from the Asset headspace or he vastly underestimated Clint and his all natural, corn fed physical abilities.

To be honest, Bucky's never slept all that great to begin with, even before the war. Brooklyn was always so loud at all hours, and unless you wanted to die of heat stroke in the summer, you kept the windows open and dealt with the noise. Winter brought on Steve hogging all the quilts and jabbing him in the ribs with his pointy elbows all night, but it wasn't like Bucky was gonna let Steve freeze to death all for a good nights sleep.

He wasn't a monster, back then at least.

As it stood, his body had been already well adapted to running on the barest of fumes. In that way, he understands Tony.

He also willing to bet the entire house that Steve still prefers to be little spoon.

He recognized the look on Clint's face —that hollow, apathetic look — he's seen it in his own reflection countless times. That's the thing about brain washing; emotions are not only unnecessary, they can become a hinderance and a liability and as such, it was one of the first things the process stamps out.

So the moment he saw his own reflection in Clint's eyes, he immediately knew what was happening. He knew Clint had nightmares and who could blame the guy. They've all lived some pretty fubar lives, having seen and done some horrible things, but The Loki Situation — as Clint and Natasha both called it — really did a number on Clint.

Regardless of how well Bucky apparently handled everything else, he thinks that killing Steve would'a been the final straw that pushed him over an edge that he would've never come back from.

He knew about Coulson, before all of this. As the Asset, years ago, Coulson had almost apprehended him at the scene. He barely had time to slip through a vent into an adjoining hotel room before the man — wearing a fucking suit and tactical vest — calmly walked into the room, having effortlessly picked the lock.

If he was pissed that his target slipped thru his fingers, he didn't show it.

Coulson had come closest to catching him, and the resulting beating that followed ensured he'd never be tailed again. If he had been in charge of Clint's recruitment and training, it was no surprise that Clint was as good as he was.

"James Barnes, are you smoking cigarettes? What would Captain America think if he knew you had such a filthy habit? Think of the children."

Bucky huffs out a laugh as Natasha settles in across from him in the little nook he tucked himself into to shield himself from the biting wind.

"Captain America is well aware of my dirty habits, Doll," he replies, "Besides, he's the face of this dynamic duo, I'm just the muscle. I don't think a couple'a smokes is going to tarnish my less than stellar reputation."

She hums in agreement and then snatches the cigarette from where it hung loosely from his lips, "Point taken."

She inhales deeply, wrapping her free arm closer around herself to stave off the cold before holding it back out to Bucky. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette back and forth as the nights events hung heavily between them.

"As much as I enjoy your company James, I did need to speak to you about something."

"Shoot."

Natasha crosses her legs underneath her before leaning in close, "What are your intentions with Clint?"

She caught him on an inhale and he starts choking like a teenager, wide eyed shock written all over his face as she calmly watches him struggle for air, "What kinda question is that?"

She maintains eye contact, stoic and unblinking, before replying, "A valid question from a concerned party. I need to know that you won't hurt him," She plucks the cigarette from his hand, before continuing, "Because I'll tell you right now James, you'll be in a world of hurt if that's the case. He's had enough people run off on him when things got rough, and even tho you have a glowing letter of recommendation from Steve, I need to hear it from you."

Bucky feels pinned under her stare and when can't immediately form a coherent response quickly enough for her, she purses her lips, eyes narrowed, "I like you James, but Clint tends to get attached and if you're not ready for that, and you hurt him because of it, they will never find your body."

Bucky bites his lip, sliding another cigarette out of the pack while refusing to break eye contact with her. He won't let her win this game she's playing with him, but he thinks he's figured out the rules.

Lighting the cigarette, he inhales deeply, and cracks a smile. "You can put your shovel away Tash, I'm not going anywhere."

She studies him for a moment and her face softens into the smallest of smiles, "Good."

Natasha is a good friend, Clint is lucky to have her.

"So about that movie. James Bond is a horrible spy."

Natasha laughs, and actual genuine laugh, and replies, "The absolute worst, but don't try to convince Clint of that, he's madly in love with the incompetent bastard."

•••

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THAT TOOK ME FOREVER. 
> 
> I'm sorry. I've just been in the worst funk and writing fluff when your in a funk takes a lot out of you.
> 
> I actually do have a lot written for this, I just have to weave something resembling a plot into it. 
> 
> I love you all, you don't even know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned into a monster, so it's been split into two. Expect the next one in the next day or two.
> 
> Mistakes are all my own, yadda yadda yadda, you guys know the drill.

When they step off the elevator to their shared floor, Natasha kisses Bucky's cheek, leaving him the smallest of smiles as they part ways. He watches her slip silently into her apartment, going over their conversation — mostly the mild threats that Bucky isn't fooling enough to not take seriously — and what's he's gained from it.

He is shocked how easy to was to admit to her that he's dead nuts over Clint, and his chest tightens with the knowledge that Clint must feel the same way if Natasha had to step in and let him know she will act with extreme prejudice if Bucky is just stringing him along. Clint doesn't find the mold of a world class spy: he's loud, clumsy on his feet and practically useless in the morning before he's had his coffee, but Bucky finds these conflicting idiosyncrasies so damn endearing

He wants to protect Clint — so fiercely and wholly — more than he wanted to protect Steve decades ago when they were nothing but brat kids, both smaller and younger and free of the filth and sin they carried deep in their tarnished souls.

He wants to save him from the world and himself, have him see what he sees in him: a man who stands out so brightly on a roster among the biologically superior, technologically advanced and other worldly, not for his skills — of which he has earned with blood and sweat — but for his heart and his humanity.

Natasha told him about his parents, his mentor, his own brother: everyone that should have been there for him when he needed it using him and leaving him when he no longer served a purpose.

Bucky can't put into words how he feels. These emotions are so new and alien, and maybe once upon a time, he'd be able to run his fingers through soft blonde hair and properly convey the swirling torrent that banged around his chest. Now he can only gaze upon the curve of jaw and the deep depths of the oceans behind his eyes and realize that the man — not the weapon, the solider, the machine — he is now, would have been lost to the wind without Clint Barton to reel him back in.

It's all too much, but it's overwhelming in the best of ways, and it hits him all at once what this must mean.

The feeling spreads from the pit of his stomach and splays out along his fingers and only works to broaden the grin that's settled across his face. The realization that he honest to god, true blue, scouts honor _loves_ this beautiful disaster should scare the shit out of him, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

It feels like coming home.

Theres a voice in the back of his mind — cold, emotionless, monotonous — that whispers that this is a bad idea, it goes against every single protocol and reprogrammed instinct that Hydra has beaten into him. During the war it was different, during the war it was you and your buddy and you damn well were gonna make sure he got home, come hell or high water. He ran straight into gunfire for kids he barely knew and it should scare him the lengths he'd go for Clint, but he can barely muster up a reason to care.

Clint is still sprawled out on the couch where Bucky left him, yet no longer asleep, his feet kicked up on the arm rest as he fiddles with his phone. Bucky is met with that same dopey, slanted grin that kick started his cold heart, and all at once he realizes that, in one way or another, he was always in this for the long haul.

Clint tosses his phone on the coffee table, rising his arms overhead as he stretches, and Bucky doesn't try to hide that he's staring as his exposed hip bones.

"You okay, Pumpkin?" He asks, never taking his eyes from the ceiling.

"Never been better, Honey Bunny."

Clint wrinkles his nose, "You smell like cigarettes."

Buck snorts, "You're so observant, no wonder they pay ya the big bucks."

Clint mockingly parrots him, before settling his hands behind his head, "I think I need to get the fuck out of this tower.

"Cabin fever?"

"Yeah," Clint ends his staring contest with the ceiling to smile at Bucky, "I'd like to get my hands on whoever wrote this script."

"Okay, now ya just talkin' nonsense. Come on, coffee first." Bucky hauls Clint to his feet, making a show of dusting the imaginary dust from his wrinkled tee shirt, "I have it on very good authority that Stark keeps the serious gourmet shit hidden in an office above his workshop."

"Breaking and entering? Jeez Barnes, you really know how to show a guy a good time. Play your cards right and I might let you get to second base."

"Says the guy who already had my dick in his ass," Bucky laughs, "Come on Hawkeye, suit up. It's time to get into character."

————

  
Tony and Steve are in the elevators heading down to the common room when Tony gets the first, tiniest little inkling that something out of the ordinary is happening.

"Steve, do you feel that?" Tony whispers, a maniacal smile spreading across his face.

"Feel what?"

"Shhhh."

Somewhere, out there, on one of the many floors of his tower, there is drama brewing and Tony is drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Tony _loves_ drama, especially when, on the very rare occasion, it doesn't involve him and the latest out of context paparazzi shot gracing the cover of the grocery store tabloid rags.

"I can _taste_ it, Steve," Tony says softly, bouncing on the soles of his feet in excitement, "I feel it in my soul. There is drama afoot."

As they near the common room, Tony can hear the unmistakable pitch of shouting voices in conflict, and his smile only grows, "Hold me, Steven. I feel faint. This is going to be beautiful."

When they finally reach their destination and the doors slide open, he's greeted with the most beautiful sight of Barton — face red and twisted in anger — simply fuming from his perch on the counter top and oh, _yes_.

"That's _bullshit_ Barnes, and you know it," Barton all but yells at Barnes, who is casually leaning against the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, a smug smirk on his face, "You take that back."

Tony Stark is so _here_ and _present_ for The Snipers Bros first domestic dispute.

Barnes snorts, and his smirk deepening into a wide grin, "No way pal, you ain't bein' objective about this. Ya emotionally compromised."

"Do I need to get a therapist for you two? Technically, Sam isn't on the books but I'm sure he can—"

"Shut up Stark," Barton snaps as Tony side steps around him on his way to the fridge, hands up in surrender, "This is serious fucking business. Rogers, your best friend is an ignorant slut. That's right, I said it."

"Honey Bunny, this isn't hard. James Bond is a piss poor example of a spy and—"

"You shut your dirty whore mouth," Barton snaps, slamming his hand down on the table, "James Bond is a god damn hero. He does all the work for none of the glory, he saves the day over and over again and for what? For a bunch of fucking assholes who don't even know he exists."

"Bucky has a point, you know," Natasha says, sitting up from her hiding spot on the couch, and wow, is it Tony's birthday?

"Aww, Tash. Not you too. I thought we were bros. Best bros. Forever."

Tony doesn't know what he has done — and _praise_ the holy trinity of Newton, Einstein and Tesla for bestowing this gift upon him — but he is ready and willing to send every single child in Manhattan on a free ride to college in karmic repayment for being allowed to bare witness to this poetically beautiful, Shakespearean scene of utter betrayal.

"I ain't sayin' that he doesn't save people, Honey Bunny" Barnes begins, "What I'm sayin is that he's the last person a top secret government organization should ever want on their payroll."

Barton is positively fuming, white knuckles gripped tightly to the counter top as if it's the only thing keeping him from flying across the room and strangling Barnes here and now.

"I can't believe that I have to explain this to you," Barnes sighs, turning to face Natasha, "Doll, would you openly walk around telling anyone who asks your actual name?"

"Yeah but—"

"Stark, help me out here. What would happen if you forced a catastrophic overload at a nuclear reactor the size of a small island?" Bucky asks, and Tony's face lights up because Steve _can't_ get mad at him for contributing to the argument if he was directly invited.

It isn't so much he's contributing to drama, really. He's only providing a scientific consolation, and seeing as he is the most qualified person in the room to do so, it would be doing science a great disservice to deny Barnes — Steve's own best friend since childhood — the correct ammo for his argument.

Tony grins, leaning against the countertop just out of arms reach from Barton, and replies, "I am going to assume we are discussing the explosive finale of Dr. No, am I correct?"

And Barnes, the smug bastard, nods, "That would be the correct assumption."

"Assuming that the reactor is running his entire base of operations as well as his radio toppler beam, it would be safe to bet that a pool reactor of that era would take roughly, and I'm just spit balling here, 150 kilograms of uranium. A blast of that size would take out all of Jamaica, easily killing half a million people, and that's not including the radioactive fallout and the toxic plume caused by the bauxite mine."

"That's a big boom just to boil a mad scientist to death," Barnes says, "Natasha easily could'a crushed the guys head between her thighs and called in the nerd brigade to safety shutdown the reactor and dismantle the toppler ray."

Barton blinks, then begins to sputter indignantly, "Okay, when you say it like that it looks bad but—"

"Not even you get kidnapped with the frequency Bond does, Clint," Natasha cuts in, sitting back and settling into the far corner of the couch and turning her attention back to her crossword puzzle book, "You should take that as a compliment."

"Well, to be fair," Tony gleefully interjects, blatantly ignoring Barton's admittedly impressive Winter Solider Death Glare impression as he begins to rummage through the kitchen in search of breakfast, "Birdbrain manages to get himself kidnapped more often than not."

"Hey! I don't get kidnapped," Barton sniffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, "Being taken hostage and being kidnapped are two completely different things and, also, that's _real_ rich coming from the guy who used get kidnapped for ransom on the regular."

"Well I have Steve now to see that that never happens again, and without my kidnapping, there would be no Iron Man," Tony replies, "When you get kidnapped—"

"Taken hostage," Bucky corrects, "There is a huge difference."

"Alright alright, cool your tits Terminator," Tony concedes as he grabs two coffee mugs from the cabinet, grinning at Steve over his shoulder as his boyfriend settles into his usual post at Bucky's left, "When Clint gets taken hostage, all that comes of it is a fuckload of extra paperwork and an extra long debriefing."

"The paperwork is almost worth it just to see Fury's face," Barton sighs wistfully, before steeling his glare back on Barnes, "and don't think that defending my honor is going to win you any brownie points Pumpkin, my point still stands. James Bond is the man and, honestly, I think you're just jealous he looks better in a suit."

"You ain't never seen me in a suit," Barnes scoffs, before bumping shoulders with Steve, "Stevie, tell the man how good I look in a suit."

Steve smiles — that impish, mischievous smile that only Barnes can drag out of him — and the change is his demeanor is abrupt: They aren't Captain America and The Winter Soldier anymore, but Steve and Bucky, just a couple of good old boys from the old neighborhood up to no good.

"Bucky cleans up well, I've seen it," Steve confirms, "Even if he refuses to cut his hair. Regulation was a good look on you, Buck." Steve reaches over and gives a slight tug to Barnes' shoulder length hair, grinning madly at the genuinely outraged and offended expression that falls across his face.

Tony takes a sip of his coffee and frowns. This isn't the regular coffee he has stocked in the common room. It brings to mind the slightest hints of caramel and berries, and is reminiscent of the traditional grown and hand cultivated beans he has _specifically_ imported from Minas Geraiz that he hides from the rest of these uncultured heathens who will happily drink the burnt sludge at Starbucks.

"Who made coffee this morning?"

The fight immediately drains from The Sniper Bros and they share an _incredibly_ suspicious look, "Well, would ya look at the time. Honey Bunny, didn't ya say something about goin' out for breakfast? I can go for breakfast."

Barton nods hurriedly, "Yeah, breakfast. I distinctly remember saying something about breakfast. Let's go do that."

Tony narrows his eyes as the two all but flee to the elevators, Barton repeatedly bashing buttons until the doors slide closed behind them, "Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Bring that elevator back up."

Seconds later, the elevator doors slide open, and Barton and Barnes are gone.

"It seems Mr. Barnes and Mr. Barton have climbed into the elevator shaft, sir."

"Of course they did!" Tony snaps, "Thank you Jarvis, for that wonderful observation." Tony turns on his heel, stalking back towards Steve who is, bless his little freedom loving heart, trying his hardest to hide the smile that threatens to spill across his face, "I'm blaming this on you. I told you they were bad news, and now look. The sanctity of my secret coffee stash has been tarnished, Steven. Nothing is sacred anymore. I hope those two know that this means war."

Natasha simply smiles.

———

The sun is rising rapidly over the city skyline as they continue their daring escape in Clint's pick up from Lower East Side via the Brooklyn Bridge — it's a bit out of the way, but Clint is absolutely adamant about avoiding Williamsburg. Something about shit beer in mason jars, handlebar mustache wearing douchebags and their blasphemous deconstructed coffee — making their way down Atlantic Avenue towards Bed-Stuy.

"Feet off the dash," Clint says, reaching over to shove Bucky's dirty boots back onto the floor, "This is a classic."

Bucky snorts, "It's a jalopy, Honey Bunny. It has more miles on it than I do."

"She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts," he says with a smirk, lovingly patting the duct tape patched steering wheel, "I've made a lot of special modifications myself."

And, because the universe is clearly working against him, the whole chassis shakes as the transmission struggles to slide back into a lower gear as he turns down Dekalb Ave.

Bucky's laughing at him, and the man is lucky Clint adores the sound of it, otherwise he would be throughly offended, "Let's get one thing straight, Honey Bunny. If either one of us is Han Solo, it's me."

"Oh, no. No no no. I'm Han Solo, this is my Millennium Falcon and you're Chewie, hands down. This isn't even an argument," Clint says as he parallel parks into the first empty spot he finds, "Sit tight, I just gotta grab something from the apartment. I won't even be ten minutes."

"No way, Honey Bunny. I'm Han and Lucky's Chewie," Bucky shouts out the window at Clint's retreating back, "You're the whiney farm boy, Blondie!"

Clint pretends not to hear that.

When he returns twenty minutes later with Lucky in tow, he finds Bucky has relocated to the bed of the truck, his well worn baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes to block the rising sun.

He tosses a greasy brown paper bag unceremoniously into his lap — "Four of Brooklyn's finest bodega BEKSPK's" — before handing off one of the cups of coffee he has balanced in one hand.

"The fuck is a beck speck ?" Bucky asks warily as he peers into the bag.

"Bacon egg and cheese, salt pepper ketchup," Clint replies cheekily, clipping Lucky's lead to the locking carabiner hanging from his belt loop, "and coffee as black as your soul. Breakfast of champions."

Bucky hauls himself out of the truck with all of the grace a man of his bulk should not have, dropping to a kneel to be attacked viciously with slobbery puppy kisses, "Hey there Lucky, missed ya too, buddy boy."

It tugs tightly on Clint's heartstrings to see Lucky take a shine to Bucky — not that Lucky is all that picky with his affections, he's so pure and good — but he's going to be honest, he really wouldn't have wanted to pick sides if his two favorite boys didn't get along.

He doesn't want to think about it.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go Han and Chewie. If we're gonna be spending the day avoiding Starks rage over his stolen coffee, we gotta make moves."

"We ain't eatin' first?" Bucky asks, "C'mon, let's drop the tailgate and —"

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes — and man, it feels good to be on the delivering end of a good eye roll for once — before shaking his head, "What? Any self respecting New Yorker can walk and eat at the same time. Tsk tsk tsk, for _shame_ Pumpkin."

With Lucky enthusiastically trotting between them, they slip underground at the corner of Lafayette and Nostrand by some sheer act of God catch the Brooklyn-Queens Crosstown Local without having to do the G Train Sprint — which is a once in a life time event that Clint's can't wait to brag to Kate about — and grab themselves a seat across from the regular strap hangers and a sweet old woman frosting a cake.

The bewildered look on Bucky's face is absolutely precious, and Clint can't begin to imagine the culture shock of going from dodging street trolleys — in what must feel like only five years ago to him — to politely declining a freshly frosted slice of cake. Clint, having no such reservations about accepting free food from strangers, accepts a slice with a smile and let's Lucky lick the frosting from his fingers.

Technically, dogs aren't allowed on the trains unless they can fit in a bag — and not that Clint holds any bias towards small, yappy lap dogs, but he's of the opinion that if you can carry a dog around in a bag, you might as well get a cat — but Bucky has Lucky tucked happily between his knees, glaring daggers at anyone who would so dare point this out.

They step off at the elevated Smith-9th street station, and as they make their way down to street level, Clint is sure to keep Bucky's face in his line of sight. It takes only a moment, and Clint's heart can't stop hammering as the dawning realization spreads across Bucky's face as to where exactly Clint has brought them.

"Are we—" Bucky swallows roughly, well trained eyes hitting street signs and land marks, his grip on Clint's hand tightening, "Holy shit, is this Red Hook?"

For a minute there, Clint thinks he's made a mistake. That maybe he should've filled Bucky into their final destination and not sprung this on him like this unannounced. He's about to apologize, tell him that they don't have to head into his childhood neighborhood if he wasn't ready for it, that they can turn around, get back on the train and head back to Bed Stuy to watch movies or go to Prospect Park or—

The hug Bucky drags Clint into knocks him off that particular train of thought, and he practically melts when Bucky whispers into his neck, "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The G Train Sprint is a very real thing, and while I LOVED the time I spent living in Bed Stuy, man, FUCK the G Train. 
> 
> Your kudos and comments give me life. I love you all so much, my darling dears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the extent of Clint's mob problems become abundantly clear and Bucky learns how horrible 90's fashion was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take these 8k words as an apology for never meeting my own deadlines. 
> 
> Also, canon typical violence tag comes in effect.

Brooklyn has changed, but as Bucky walks hand in hand with Clint down Van Dyke Street, he takes the smallest bit of comfort that Red Hook seems to be holding on fiercely to the past.

The docks where he stood and fought for work — once so busy, ships damn near blocked the view of the Statue of Liberty — have traded cargo ships for cruise liners and ferries. He knew Hooverville wouldn't still be here because even by depression era standards, a shantytown wasn't exactly the sturdiest of structures, but to see public housing in its place really hit home a strange sense of nostalgia he didn't quite understand.

The neighborhood still had that industrial feel to it, even if the factories have been converted to apartments, art houses and a winery, of all things. He's surprisingly angry to find Graving Dock One had been paved over to make way for a parking lot and an IKEA, but when Clint tells him about the ugly fight the residents put up in an attempt to stop it, he can't help but smile because that sounds like the Red Hook he remembers.

He bets if Steve wasn't on ice at the time, that IKEA never would'a stood a chance. He's Captain America for fucks sake — a honest to god, verifiable national treasure — that's gotta stand for something, especially when it came to saving historical pre-Civil War dock that the entire neighborhood was built around.

Clint is walking next to him, eyes hidden behind his trade mark purple sunglasses, and the near permanent scowl he has screwed on his face melts as Clint gives Bucky's gloved hand a small squeeze.

The simple act of holding hands in public with _his_ guy is something that he never thought he'd live to experience. To be honest, not having to hide a relationship with another man without threat of death was quite possibly his favorite thing about this century. He and Steve were lucky, so unbelievably lucky, to have had the friendship they had, to be able to confide in one another without judgement and to be able to empathize with each other in a time where same-sex relationships were illegal.

He's heard stories from other companies that liberated camps, he read the papers, he knew what the upside down pink triangle meant for people like him.

He lets out a shuddering breath, and can't stop the smile from breaking across his face as Clint's hand tightens around his, pulling him to a stop.

"You doing alright, Pumpkin?"

Bucky nods, pulling his hand to his lips to kiss Clint's knuckles as Lucky hovers at their feet.

He stops, however, when the hair on the back of his neck stands at attention. A quick glance at the roof tops shows no cause for alarm, but when Lucky starts growling and pulling on his lead, Bucky's blood runs cold.

Clint leans into Bucky, resting his chin on his shoulder, "You feel it too right?"

Bucky stiffens only slightly, but it's enough for Clint to know his fight-or-flight response is on the ready, which is all the confirmation he needs. Bucky's super soldier senses are, admittedly, more finely tuned than his and if Bucky is wary, they may have a problem.

His boys are spooked, and contrary to popular belief Clint is not a dumb man.

"Gotcha, loud and clear," He says. Clint takes stock of their location, rolling his bottom lip between he's teeth as he tightens his grip on both Bucky's hand and Lucky's leash. "C'mon. I know a friendly place, a guy like you should love it."

Clint knows it's a stretch — it's been ages since he's been in this neighborhood — but if he has to declare sanctuary in Red Hook, he knows Mars is his safest bet.

———

After crisscrossing around Red Hook — it was the best he could do to shake a tail with Lucky in tow — Clint leads him down an alley around the back of a seemingly closed bar. He immediately hands off the leash, crouches down and gets to work picking the lock.

"I like going this way," Clint explains with a smile, "It's better than waiting in line."

Bucky leans against the wall, keeping a look out, "What line?"

Clint pauses to look up at Bucky incredulously, "Really? Come on, Barnes. Henry Hill. Goodfellas. What good are you to me if you can't catch all my relevant movie references."

Bucky rolls his eyes, "And here I was, thinkin' that you kept me around for my stunning good looks."

"I almost got it, hold on."

Clint slides the last notch into place with a satisfying click, grinning over his shoulder as he turns the once locked door handle, "See?"

He takes a step back before swinging the door open, shouting, "Ay yo Mars!"

Bucky hears the click of the safety before he sees muzzle of a pistol pressed up against Clint's temple, and the only thing that stops him from tearing the gun from the well manicured hand is Clint's tight, reassuring grip on his arm and the broad grin on his face.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Barton!" The woman snaps, dropping the gun to her side as she drags a hand across her face, "Stop breaking in and start using the god damn phone."

"Upgrade your security system and then we'll talk."

"And you!" She turns to look down at the dog — the largest, shaggiest German Shepherd Bucky's ever seen — who sat at her feet, impatiently whining as he looked up at Clint, "Some guard dog you are."

"Aw, Mars don't be like that," Clint says with a smirk, kneeling down to the dogs eye level, "She knew it was me, didn't you girl? That's because you're such a good dog, what a smart, beautiful girl Ante is, yes she is."

The woman makes a series of clicking sounds with her tongue and a quick hand signal, and like a flash of light, the dog comes barreling into Clint open arms, knocking him on his back, before walking all over him to prance happy circles around Lucky.

"Hey, asshole. You didn't say you had company," she says, and then Bucky is set into a calculating gaze, "Marla Larsen, how we doin' handsome?"

Bucky, warily, reaches out and takes her hand, "Ma'am."

Bucky spent enough time around Stark to know that you couldn't buy Marla's well tailored, three piece suit off a rack in any store and he was willing to bet the studded gems that lined the entirety of her left ear weren't simple costume jewelry made for show. She has money, that much he was certain of, but not the kind of money you take in running a bar. Her hands were too soft, her eyes too sharp, for her to make her living slinging drinks, and Bucky feels he's gonna have to watch his back with this one.

She gives him a quick one over, dark eyes fluttering from his eyes, cheeks and shoulders and Bucky feels suddenly exposed, "So, this is the infamous James Barnes, huh? Red Hooks favorite fallen son, back from the dead." She never breaks eye contact, and the grip she holds on his hand shifts, two fingers sliding to rest over his pulse point as her smile grows, sharp and calculating, "Im'ma big fan of your work."

Yes, Bucky is _definitely_ keeping his eye on her.

"Leave him alone, Mars," Clint whines as he gets to his feet, "We need a place to lay low for a while."

"Say no more," she says, finally releasing Bucky's hand to look out into the alleyway and pull the door shut, "Is this vault level situation or...?"

Clint waves her off, "Nothing that solid. Just need to get off the streets."

She nods, "Game room is empty, you know the way, make yourselves at home. Just try not the get dog fur all over the felts, it's a real bitch to clean up."

\---

  
Bucky follows Clint down a rickety, narrow staircase that opens up into a large room that must span across the multiple row houses above. A well stocked bar lines the side wall, low hanging lights settled above multiple, green felted tables. A rush of nostalgia comes over him at the sight of the brass fixtures and well worn, deep seated leather chairs. Nothing looks like it has been updated or modernized since the war, and it's familiarity is both comforting and overwhelming.

This is the Brooklyn he remembers.

He was only sixteen when prohibition ended, but not much changed when the neighborhood speakeasies converted over into legal bars. The game room, like Marla called it, was like stepping into a time capsule.

Clint has already settled into a horseshoe shaped booth in the corner, a soft smile on his face as he watches Bucky take in the vintage, hand crafted bottles of homemade, self labeled bathtub gin that line the walls.

"I knew you'd like it," Clint says, his hand mindlessly scratching behind Lucky's ears, "Mars hasn't touched the place since she took over, she has a thing for vintage."

"You sure we're safe here?"

Clint nods, "Me and Mars go way back to my crimey-wimey pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. days. There's no safer hole in the wall to crawl into."

"What, you were partners in crime or something?"

"Or something," Marla says as she enters the room, dragging the false wall closed behind her with a reassuring thud, "I'm not hosting tonight, so you can sit pretty s'long as you need, but you know the rules. Nothin' in life is free. Spill it, Barton."

"Aw, come on Mars, it's me. Isn't my word worth anything anymore?"

Bucky tenses as he runs his hand over the mahogany bar top. She's obviously looking for answers, to what question he isn't sure and he doesn't know how willing he is to let a stranger in on the finer details of their situation. He's grateful for the space and her time, for sure, but he knows nothing about this woman or her strange, hidden basement gambling room, but he trusts Clint, and Clint trusts her.

He takes the smallest bit of solace that he knows he's more heavily armed than the petite brunette that's leaning against the false wall.

It's his ace in the hole.

"The treacherous are ever distrustful," Marla begins sweetly, and patiently waits for Clint to continue.

"So you expect honor amongst your thieves," Clint sighs, sinking deeper into the booth, "Yeah, yeah. I know the drill."

A smile breaks the tension in Bucky's shoulders as he rounds towards Marla, "Didn't know criminals read Tolkien."

She gives him an appraising glance over the rim of her wire frame glasses, "I like your boyfriend already, but it still doesn't get you off the hook. Spill, Barton."

Bucky glances over at Clint, who gives him a confirming nod, and for the first time since he felt the prickly wariness of being watched, he relaxes, if only slightly.

"Bucky had a feeling we were being followed."

She quirks an eyebrow, "You broke into my bar because Bucky Blue Eyes over here had a feeling?"

"It was a very strong feeling Mars," Clint assures, and Bucky can hear the smile seep through his voice, "Lucky got spooked too."

This gives the woman pause, and a gentle smile graces her face as she nods, "Always trust the dogs."

She pushes off the wall, clapping her hands together with a smile, "Alright boys, you paid your dues. Tit for tat and all of that. Barton used to work for me."

Clint snorts, "Like you really ever needed personal security."

"You were more for show, to be honest," she swipes back, and their banter is so easy and natural and nothing like how it is back at the tower, she turns to Bucky, grinning, "No one takes a 16 year old girl seriously at the tables, I needed Barton to defend my honor."

Clint laughs, shouting from the booth, "As if you had honor left to defend."

Her dog, Ante, hasn't left her heel and Bucky has flashes of being in the trenches, war dogs at the ready. They were mostly mascots, spoils of war picked up as pups from the ruins of smoking cities, but nothing held up morale during long stretches of 'hurry up and wait' the way a dog can.

"So," Marla begins, refusing to break eye contact with Bucky as she ambles towards the bar, "Might as well set Lucky up for the long run. Bowls are upstairs, Barton. Go make yourself useful."

Clint looks back and forth between Bucky and Marla as they not so subtly stare each other down, and nods.

"Don't let her rope you into playing cards," he says, pulling the wall open just enough so he can slip through, "She's just after your clothes and money."

———

Knowing Mars, she sent him upstairs so she could threaten Bucky's life without an audience, and if he didn't love her for that.

Man, he missed her.

The last time Clint showed up at Mars' place unannounced, she slapped him in the face and, in her very best Cher impression, told him to snap out of it.

That sounds bad, but he's not gonna lie, he absolutely deserved it. For one, he should've seen it coming — slacking on that reaction time Barton, get your shit together — and secondly, he may have sort of passed out drunk in the dumpster behind her place, too fucking ashamed to just dial her number.

It was just after New York, and he didn't know where else to go. Tash was in the wind, he couldn't face anyone from S.H.E.I.L.D. and the Tower turned into a shelter for psychologically wounded superheroes and he just needed to get away from all of that.

He didn't want to be found but he didn't want to be alone; he couldn't go back to Bed Stuy, and he couldn't trust that SHIELD didn't have an agent hidden around every corner, watching and logging his every move.

So he got drunk and nostalgic and ended up in Marla's dumpster. It wasn't his finest moment, but at the time he couldn't find one single spare fuck to give.

And Mars, like a tiny dapper angel sent from above, dragged his pathetic ass inside and pumped him full of pancakes and coffee. She didn't have to ask what was wrong, she didn't admonish him for being a drunken disaster, she simply ran her fingers through his hair and asked, in all seriousness, if she needed to 'take care of' anyone for him.

He's still not sure if she was joking or not.

After letting him sleep off the two day hangover from hell, she diagnosed him an acute case of The Fear and advised a trip to Vegas in a very fast car with no top, dragging him across the country — "C'mon, like when we was kids." — for technicolored distractions and therapeutic screaming sessions deep in the desert.

They stayed at Circus Circus — because Marla has a twisted sense of humor —under assumed names as a newlywed couple and they took in all of the depraved decadence Vegas had to offer. Mostly tho, they stayed in watching cheesy 80s movies and eating _all_ of the room service.

He woke up one morning to find her packing — Hurricane Sandy had changed course and was heading straight to New York and she needed to move her collected treasures into her airtight vault — when she handed him a black duffle bag and a set of keys.

She was on the next flight to LaGuardia, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and a standing offer to make himself at home at her place if he ever finds himself back in New York.

In the bag was ten thousand in cash, three sets of clothes and a burner phone with her number already saved. The keys belonged to a fully loaded, yet perfectly ordinary and nondescript, black sedan.

On the front seat was a note in her small, blocky handwriting: the lower you fall, the higher you'll fly.

He keeps that note on his person at all times.

After enough time has passed, he heads back downstairs, hoping that Bucky and Mars have made nice by the time he gets there.

———

Marla waits until she hears Clint walking overhead, before rounding on Bucky and crowding into his personal space, "Let's make this quick, alright?" Marla says, "Were you followed, or do you think you were followed. You don't seem like the kinda guy who takes that shit lightly."

Bucky frowns, shaking his head, "I can't be sure, I didn't see anyone but—"

"No, no." Marla cuts him off, "I trust your hunch, I'm just trying to get a feel for what we're dealing with." She drags a hand through her hair, and her expression turns soft, "Look, I've known Barton a good long while; he's a ball buster and a motherfucking handful. Spend enough time with him and you see that trouble ain't that far behind. I've taken the liberty to shake a few rats off his tail, if you know what I mean," and with the look she sends him, he makes the assumption that Clint's mob problem runs deeper than even he realizes, "Way I sees it, if you two had a tail, we may have a problem. If that problem comes a knockin' I can deal with it, but I'll sleep better tonight knowing you got his back."

Marla seems to be a founding member of the Keep Clint Barton Alive Foundation, and any apprehension he's been feeling about this entire situation fades with the knowledge that this woman has had years experience dealing with Clint Barton.

This drags a smile out of Bucky, one that Marla returns, and he replies, "Yeah, I got his six."

"Good. C'mon, sit down, take a load off," Marla says none too gently, tugging Bucky by the elbow and depositing him into a booth.

"So how'd you end up with pleasure of Clint's personal security services?"

She shrugs, "We good-for-nothin' street kids have a tendency to run in similar circles."

"You're the _worst_ at telling stories," Clint chides as he reappears, setting down bowls of dog food and water before flopping down next to Marla, "I met Mars running from the cops."

"I had a warrant out in Jersey and this asshole comes flying around the corner with the entire pig parade in tow, and I ain't about to be collared for someone else's fuck up, so I start running too."

"Oh my god, do you remember that alley we posted up in to wait them out?"

Disgust curls across her face, "I'll never forget that smell."

"Piss and fish," they say in unison, and Bucky finds their shared shudder adorable.

"So were camped out in a dumpster behind this Japanese joint and we get to talking," Clint says, "Turns out we had a lot in common. Street brats with tragic childhoods, non traditional and recklessly endangering role models, you know how it goes."

Marla clearly disagrees, "Say what you want about your own shitty circus childhood, mine was fine."

"Mars, your uncle was takin you on field trips to AC, gambling and running cons instead of keeping you in school."

"Yeah, so?" She shrugs, "Still did pretty well for myself, yeah? I wasn't made for that cake and coffee life and you know it."

This is a side of Clint he's never seen, a Clint before S.H.E.I.L.D and the Avengers, and he wonders if Clint even notices how easily he slipped back into the flow of it. He seems looser, his smile less sharp, sitting here among friendly faces and pints of beer, regaling stories of his wayward youth.

"A few months later, I'm on this job and —"

"He bailed my ass out of a crazy game of poker," she interrupts.

"Come on, Mars," Clint whines, dropping his head to her shoulder, "What's the point of having stories if you're not gonna tell them proper."

She rolls her eyes and sends Bucky a smirk. Apparently Clint has this universal effect on people, "Fine."

"So I'm on his job staking out this back room poker game, right? Real high roller, no limit type game, total James Bond vibe. All I'm supposed to do is sit tight, watch who wins and follow the money home. But no, of course not. This one," he waves his hand at a grinning Marla, "had to go and get caught cheating."

"Countin' cards ain't cheatin'" Marla insists, turning to Bucky, "I only cheat casinos, and that's because the spreads in their favor."

"She wouldn't leave without the pot."

"Sure as shit I wasn't leaving without my money! Get the fuck out the kitchen if you can't handle what I'm cooking for dinner."

"So she digs her heels in; she's got these huge dudes with guns in her face but she flat refuses to leave, and what was I gonna do? Let this crazy chick get her brains splattered all over the place? So she grabs the money and runs, I take out a few mob guys and save the day."

She raises a single eyebrow, "Is that how you remember it? Because I could have sworn after everything was said and done, you shot me."

"Mars, I just saved your ass and you stole my wallet."

"And I still have you a job afterwards, didn't I?" She turns to Bucky, "No ones ever caught me stealing, I would'a been a fool to not hire him."

"Wait, you had hired security just to play cards?" Bucky asks, clearly underestimating the danger a poker player might encounter.

Marla shrugs, "I'm a good player, but the people I play with don't like losing none too much. I was just a kid, didn't see the value of fighting my own fights yet."

Clint rolls his eyes, "Don't be humble, it's a bad look on you." He turns to Bucky, brimming with excitement, "Mars can spot a sucker from a mile away and walk away from the table with a contract for his soul. Shes been blacklisted by every casino in Atlantic City. I swear she's magic."

"It's not magic, I'm an advantage player. It's math and psychology."

"Yeah, that's what I said. Magic."

"Now who's selling themselves short?" She replies, shoving Clint with her shoulder, "This guy does advanced geometry in his head on the fly, and tells me math is magic. Drop the dumb blonde act, Barton it's a bad look on you."

Clint hushes her, looking wildly around the completely empty, windowless room, "Shut the fuck up about the dumb blonde act. Someone might hear you, and if word gets back to Cap that I'm a fully competent adult, he'll start trusting me with real responsibility and I don't need that kind of stress in my life."

She loops her arm around Clint's neck as she laughs into his shoulder, and Bucky can't stop the smile that creeps across his face. He's never really had to chance to see Clint this relaxed and away from the job, and damn if he isn't beautiful like this.

"No, she's actual magic. If her and Tash ever linked up, they'd bankrupt Vegas." He turns completely in his seat to face her and manages to conjure up the most pathetic pout, whining, "Tell Bucky about the time you blackmailed that guy into giving you that boat. I love that story."

And a smile ever so slowly slips across Marla's face at hearing the world blackmail, Clint's eyes narrow immediately because Marla Larsen is a terror and an agent of chaos.

"Mars," he says slowly, and she just glances at him over her shoulder with the most devious of looks as she slides out of the booth, "Don't you dare."

She doesn't listen to him, of course. She never did, not once in their illustrious career of piggybacking on each other's ill gotten fortunes has Mars ever not done exactly what Mars was going to do in the first place. Suddenly, he wishes they had stayed on the streets and dealt with whatever was setting off alarms in Bucky's head, because he knew that look.

Marla knew him when, and as Bucky raises an eyebrow in question, Clint does his best to disappear deeper into the cushions of the booth.

Marla returns clutching a graffiti covered hat box, a Polaroid tucked between her teeth and Clint does not like the grin she is sporting in the slightest.

"Okay, let me explain," he starts quickly, "The 90's were a very weird time for everyone, don't judge me."

Bucky plucks the picture from between Marla's teeth and at least has the decency to try to cover his laughter, "Oh, wow Honey Bunny. The Queers to Fear, huh?"

"Don't laugh, we fucked shit up," Clint says, returning the fist bump that Marla held out for him

"Yeah, we had fun."

"Please tell me you still have this outfit packed away somewhere."

"Oh, shut the fuck up Pumpkin," Clint sighs, yanking the picture out of his hands, "Oh, wow, Mars. Look at us. We were babies."

He remembers this night — or, at the very least, how it started — when a twenty large payday was worth risking getting shot over. They broke into the safe in the back office of some olive oil mafia front, making off with stacks of cash, a few phonebook sized cellphones and pockets full of jewelry. They made a pit stop to the meat packing district — one of Marla's many apartments that littered the city — to unload their haul and raid Mars' closet for something more celebratory to wear.

Fake ID's in hand — they were barely 18 at the time — they spilled into The Limelight, drunk on adrenalin and the after glow of a successful job, for one of Michael Alig's infamously wild parties, and that's where the memory fades to black.

He's assumes it went well for him because he didn't wake up in jail the next day, which is always nice.

Oh, the 90s.

New York was a criminals playground, and they were young, reckless, always on the run from the cops in a way that seems almost novel now, compared to combatting terrorist cells and the occasional Lovecraftian, inter-dimensional nightmare. It was dirty and dangerous before Giuliani swept in and scrubbed the god forsaken soul out of New York City, sanitizing the subways and dropping fucking cops on every corner just to make Clint's life difficult.

It was an end to an era; New York City's seedy underworld gave way to an influx of chain restaurants catering to tourists that were promised safer streets. It was a rough time to be a criminal in Manhattan, and as Clint took on bigger, better paying jobs out of The Big Apple, Mars began her full frontal assault on the tables of Atlantic City. When Clint popped in almost a year and a half later, he found her blacklisted from AC, prowling around the outer boroughs, working her way into larger pots and watching her own back quite well.

Despite the thick streaks of silver that run through her short dark curls and the shadow of her smile etched into her cheeks, Mars is retaining her looks as she marches ever onward off this mortal coil. Although he can't see her outfit as she carries Clint bridal style in her arms, he knows for certain that whatever she was wearing that night is just as groan worthy as his own get up.

"Jeez, Mars. You look _ridiculous_."

"Yeah? I'm wearing sequins and make up. That's _your_ doing Barton."

A much younger Clint — his body thinner, more compact and lacking the scars he proudly wears like battle badges — is cheesing for the camera, the top half of his face hidden behind a gold sequined masquerade mask. Clad in nothing other than a god awful, itty bitty purple speedo and neon yellow rollerblades, he has one arm draped over Marla's shoulders, the other holding a glowing, neon purple goblet victoriously over his head.

There's so much glitter.

Clint is reminded again just how awful 90's fashion was when Mars slides another Polaroid across the table. They're standing in front of the Prospect Park arch and Clint groans in shame.

Mars is wearing a bright yellow pant suit — the shoulders sharply pointed and packed out with enough padding to make her a suitable defenseman for a pick up game of football — bright red suspenders holding up a pair of matching yellow wide legged pants, her ever present pair of black Doc Martins peeking out from below the hem. However, Clint is in absolutely no position to criticize Marla on her more questionable fashion choices, if he's going to be completely honest.

A bright salmon colored, backwards SnapBack baseball cap is shoved crookedly over his once trendy bowl cut, clashing painfully with the zebra stripped, cropped muscle shirt that hangs off one shoulder. A pair of oversized overalls hang loosely off his body by a single strap — because you weren't cool in 1994 unless you wore your excessively baggy overalls half done — and they do nothing to hide the predictably purple boxer shorts he's wearing.

And Bucky, the bastard, has tears streaming down his face, laughter wracking his body. Every time he seems to calm down and get his shit together, he peeks at the photos through his fingers and loses it again. His laugh is loud and it shakes through his entire body and Clint decides that he will willing wear every ridiculous retro outfit he can find if it means he can listen to Bucky laugh like that again.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up Pumpkin. For starters, I was 18. We all make dumb choices at 18. And two, I'll have you know that by 1994 standards, I was cool as fuck."

"Oh, Honey Bunny," Bucky gasps between his laughing fits, "There is no way you can convince me that dressin' like that was cool," he turns to Marla, shaking his head as if it'll clear his acute case of the giggles, "Can you make me a copy of this?"

"Keep it," she says, settling back into her seat to continue to poke through the box of memories, "You're gettin' a bigger kick outta it than I ever will. Just don't ever let Clint live this down."

"I'm right here."

"Deal," Bucky says with a grin, reaching his hand across the table to shake Mars extended hand, "I'll remind him on a regular basis, I won't let ya down."

"I'm _literally_ sitting right in front of you."

She's about to start digging through the box of Memories Clint Would Rather Forget when she's interrupted by a banging on the entrance door of the bar and Marla freezes, eyes narrowed as she stares up at the ceiling.

"Expecting company?" Clint asks, as the confusion on her face shifts to something darker and she shares a _look_ with Bucky.

"No," replies, her voice low and steady as she stands, staring at the ceiling as heavy knocks turn to incessant banging, as if someone was trying with all of their might to break the heavy, wooden door of its hinges. "I'll be right back, you boys sit tight."

Bucky raises a questioning eyebrow as Marla disappears up the stairs that leads to the trapdoor under her office desk.

"You think it's our ghost?"

Clint shrugs, "They came to haunt the wrong house if it is."

"Do I need to take care of this?" Bucky asks as the banging continues, getting louder by the second. They're stuck down here, like rats in a cage, and he's fully prepared to throw Clint and Lucky over each of his shoulders and shoot his way out of here if necessary.

Clint shakes his head and grins as Marla reenters the room, a sledgehammer balanced over her small shoulders, looking like murder, "Nah, she can handle it. Gonna go medieval on their asses Mars?"

Marla may be a world class, Olympic Gold Medal liar, but she is doing nothing to hide the contemptible rage from settling on her face, "These motherfuckers think they can come to my house, try to strong arm me, the silly stupid sons of fuckin bitches."

"I'm assuming you got this, but holler if you need us."

Marla shakes her head, "Barnes, I'm leaving you in charge," thumbing over her shoulder, "Keep an eye on him, don't let him touch nothin. Let's go great our guests, Ante."

After a short series of clicks and whistles the dog winds between Bucky's legs, coming to a stop at Marla's heel. She drags the false wall open, Ante taking off ahead of her, and she tells them that whatever happens not to come out until she gives the all clear, closing the door with an ominous click.

They listen to Marla's footsteps crossing the floorboards above them as Clint turns to Bucky, "Mafia problems, amirite?"

"Yeah, we gotta talk about your mafia problems," Bucky says, because he's heard this story before; the one about track suit gangsters wearing too much cologne. If he has people on him to the point he was followed here, they have problems.

He swears, Clint Barton is going to put him into an early grave.

Clint waves him off, "Don't compare my mob problems with her mob problems. Her mission in life is money. Sometimes that means dealing with the mob. I don't go out of my way to deal with them, it just happens."

The banging stops, and there is a beat of silence.

"Can I help you with something gentlemen?" is all they hear before the door slams shut and gunshots erupt, Antes ferocious, wild snarls over powering the surprised shouts of their uninvited guests.

And Marla is laughing.

There are an unknown number of armed assailants in the bar room above them, and Clint's pint sized friend is laughing so loudly that it carries over the sounds of a scuffle and her dogs savage barks.

Bucky is frozen, dumbfounded by Clint's calm indifference, when a series of crashes makes the entire ceiling shake — he assumes it has everything to do with the sledgehammer — threatening to bring the swaying light fixtures clattering to the ground.

Bucky seems unconvinced, "Are you sure she—"

"Pumpkin, trust me," Clint interrupts, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand reassuringly, "Marla grew up on these streets and Red Hook in the 80s was nothing short of a god damn war zone. As awesome as Tash is at her job, Mars fights mean and dirty. This never ends well for the other guy."

There's a loud racket at the sound of the front door being flung open as someone tries to escape the calamity — "Ah, ah. Come on sweetheart, I just wanna talk." — before its viciously slammed shut.

A single gunshot rings out, and the wailing, high pitched scream that follows shoots down Bucky's spine and does nothing to reassure him that everything is going fine and dandy upstairs.

After what seems like an eternity, Marla shouts, "Barton! Get your ass up here!"

Clint's face lights up as he slaps Bucky's arm, "Oh man, this is gonna be great."

They clamber up the stairs to find the bar in absolute chaos, chairs and tables overturned, broken bottles littering the floor. Amidst the wreckage sits Marla, cross legged on a table top — Ante dutifully sitting at her feet — a hand still wrapped around the hilt of the knife that she had plunged into the hand of the man sitting next to her.

"Aw, Mars," Clint sighs, looking down at the formerly alive mobsters on the floor, "That _kills_ people. We talked about this."

"Well," Marla begins, gripping him by the hair and yanking his head up to show his face. "This fuckface russki shithead says he's a friend of yours."

She is covered in blood, and its like she didn't even notice. Three large men barged into her bar not even two minutes ago and all that remains of them is the one pinned to the table, his partners laying dead on the floor. She was smiling, like disposing three men twice her size wasn't a big enough deal for her to lose her breath, like she's done this before.

Bucky is impressed.

"Well, the lack of tracksuit is throwing me off," Clint says slowly, looking down at the beaten man with a smirk, "But who knows. You working for Ivan Banionis, bro?"

Marla yanks at his hair again, pulling his head further back, exposing his neck. "Answer him," The man narrows his eyes and spits in Clint's face in response, "Wrong answer."

Marla slams the mans head back onto the table with a sickening crunch as his nose shatters. She jerks his head up once more to find his eyes sliding in and out of focus, before letting go and letting it drop back to the table.

"Hey," Marla snaps, slapping the suit across the face as he fights to stay conscious, "Wake the fuck up and look at me. C'mon, let's go see how you're buddies are doin'." She grabs him by the hair and pulls the knife out of his palm, dragging him to his feet and forcing him to look down at his associates who were laying in pools of their own blood and brain matter, "I tell you what, here's what we're gonna do, alright? Consider this your lucky day because I'm feeling rather generous. Im'ma gonna let you live long enough for you to sulk back to whatever shithole you crawled outta with a message from me."

She lets go of his scalp and he collapses to the floor, gasping for breath as she kneels down next to him, "I take none too kindly to people bustin' up my place of business. I know a lot of people in a lot of places that'll make life hell for you and everyone that you work for," She stands, dragging him to his feet by the lapels of his jacket while she leans in close to whisper in his ear, "You see that man over there?" She asks, pointing to Bucky, "He makes my work look like child's play. Hey Barnes, why don't you come over and tell our new friend here all about your vested interested in Barton's well being."

So, they came here for Clint.

Threat confirmed.

Something wells up in his chest, wretched and deep, and he's thinks that he'd've felt an insatiable quell of bloodlust, but nothing like that comes.

Instead, there is clarity.

The change is almost immediate as the relentless pounding in his ears ceases, and all emotion falls from Bucky's face. He expects rage, an unfathomable fury but all that comes, as he steps over broken barstools, pulling the leather glove from his hand, is a certain familiar calmness he hasn't felt in years.

"ты знаешь кто я? вы знаете , что я сделал?"

The mans eyes grow wide as he stares as Bucky's metal hand, the fear of God written all over his face when he realizes that he's face to face with none other than The Winter Solider, the man who tore apart D.C. with the same blank expression he sees now, "да."

"Хорошо. Это то, что будет с вами, если он был нанесен вред . Понял?"

Marla grins and give the man a sharp slap on the cheek, "Good talk."

She lets go of his jacket and pushes him towards the door, and the man is a lot smarter than he looks because he flees without a second look back.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring the door before Clint slides into his field of view and snaps him out of the static, worry etched all over his face, "Hey, you with me Pumpkin?"

Bucky shakes his head as the world comes back to life, dragging Clint into a hug he never wants him to escape from.

"Can you boys do me a favor?" Marla asks, oblivious to Bucky's headspace or Clint's quiet concern, "Im'ma put my feelers out there, see what I can find out, but in the meantime? Clint, I need you to stay out of Brooklyn until I can get a handle on this."

"Wait, what? _Hell_ no, Mars. I'm not going to be chased out of my own neighborhood, fuck that."

Bucky steps forward, dropping a hand on his shoulder, "She got a point Hon—"

Clint shoves Bucky's hand off his shoulder, narrowing his eyes, "Don't you Honey Bunny me, this is bullshit. I'm not gonna sit up in the tower like a damsel in distress."

"C'mon Barton, it's not like I'm asking you to go off grid. Like staying in Stark Tower is such a fuckin' nightmare."

"No, Mars. Do you want the terrorists to win? Because that's how the terrorists win."

Marla rounds on him, poking him in the chest with her finger, "I ain't giving you the option here. You must have done something _spectacular_ to piss them off, because they followed you straight to my door. Gimmie some peace of mind, for fucks sake."

Clint keeps his eyes narrowed as he pouts, but at least he has the decency to keep quiet.

Marla sits down on a barstool and straightens her tie, fishing her phone out of her vest pocket, "Em? Hey love, listen we have a situation — yeah, of course it's taken care of, who the fuck do you make me out for? I'm gonna need you to call for a clean up on aisle ten. Three, Russian. One on the run, two currently in pieces. What— well I'm just so sorry Em, I was more preoccupied with making sure Barton didn't get his dumbass made— yeah, hold on—" she moves the phone away from her mouth, "Em says hi. You won't believe who his boyfriend is. Bucky Barnes— I know, right? Even better looking in person. Anyway— yeah, he's fine, asshole broke in through the back door. Okay — okay fuck, alright I know, I know. I'll see you soon and bring home dinner, because I'm fucking starving. Yeah— yeah alright. Love you too."

"Emerson isn't going to kill me, is she?" Clint asks, taking the smallest step behind Bucky, "Please don't let Emerson yell at me, I can't handle the disappointment."

"No, she's just pissed I killed them without finding out who they work for."

"Do you need help with..." Bucky gestures to the two formerly alive mobsters.

She shakes her head "These two have a date with the bottom of the Hudson. It'll be like it never happened."

"I'm real sorry about this Mars," Clint begins, "They followed us here, I should've just—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up Barton," She sighs, "You did the right thing coming here. Now, you boys hungry? Em's bringing home a couple'a pies."

Clint perks up at the prospect of pizza, "I could eat."

Bucky knows that trouble always seems to find Clint, and altho he knows he and Natasha would be able to handle anyone who dares cross their path, he's grateful that they have another member on Team Keep Clint Barton Safe From The World, it's turning out to be a full time job.

Maybe he can have Steve draw up some tee shirts.

He takes out his phone, and quickly sends out a group test.

_We may have a situation, I'll keep you updated._

dollface: _is Clint okay?_

Little Hawkeye: _WTF DID HE DO NOW?_

  
————

When Emerson arrives twenty minutes later with four pizzas in hand, Clint is equal parts elated — as evidenced by his grumbling stomach — and terrified that the tall blonde is going to kill him for leading a threat straight to her wife's front door.

She doesn't say much — apart from mentioning that "janitorial services and housekeeping" were on their way, and they should head downstairs to eat — but the disappointment in him is clearly carved into her brow as she takes stock of the wrecked bar and Marla's ruined suit, shaking her head at the calamity that always seems to follow in Clint's wake.

She and Bucky, however, immediately hit it off. Being an army brat, she had done her dissertation at Columbia on the Howling Commandos, and at the very least, Bucky had seemed relieved to be acknowledged for his achievements during the war rather than his time spent as the hand of Hydra. He denied being a war hero, but Clint knew Bucky well enough to notice the smallest of smiles that tugged at his lips when Emerson refused to hear it and listed his accomplishments one after the other.

Maybe if he had gotten any sort of formal education, Clint might've already known that before the war, he was a three time, welterweight boxing champ or that apart from kicking some serious Hydra ass, Bucky and Steve had stopped the Nazis from building a tunnel from France to England or that his weapon of choice was a M1928A1 submachine gun. His mind is completely blown tho, learning the son of a bitch actually went out of his god damn way to find and carry the infamously buggy Johnson M1941 rifle, which he shot with incredible accuracy at over 1500 yards, saving Steve's life with one while taking out a Hydra base in Switzerland.

And all of this was before the fall, back when he was nothing more than unenhanced, non-super Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.

Clint shifts uncomfortably in his seat, wondering if anyone notices the raging hard on he's trying to talk down, because the marksman in him can't handle how hot it is hearing how good of a shot Bucky was and his usual trick of picturing Fury in lacy lingerie isn't fucking helping.

Bucky glances over to Clint and smiles, because of course the bastard notices, and as his eyes darken, Clint makes the decision right then and now that nothing in life is more important than getting Bucky naked and in his bed.

Fuck Stark and his fancy coffee, they'll burn that bridge when they get there.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? Those two Polaroids made this entire chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha gets to borrow Bucky while Clint is on mission in South America, and Bucky returns in kind by bringing her to Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THIS TURNED INTO A MONSTER 10k CHAPTER.
> 
> I've broken it up into two parts, part 2 will be following shortly. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own, but we can just blame it on the fact I've replaced sleep and meals with coffee.

Bucky wants to be angry, he really truly does, but Steve tried _so_ hard and has been making _so_ much progress that he couldn't even be mad at the guy.

The fact that he's just sitting here, looking like a kicked golden retriever puppy, really ain't helping. God, he knows it's useless.

Who's he kiddin'? He can never be mad at Steve.

Now, Bucky knows this was a team effort, and he knows he shouldn't be pointing fingers — even if everyone else went above and beyond with their assignments — but Steve was given one simple job and that was the watch the sauce.

Steve had not watched the sauce.

It's Bucky's fault, really. He hasn't spent too much time in a kitchen preparing meals with Steve since coming to the tower — why would he spend time cooking when he can just make a phone call? — but Bucky should'a known better and he should'a dug his heels in and dealt with the patented Rogers' doggedness head on. So he's in no position to complain as he tries to get the flames under control, nor does he attempt to understand how one would go about setting an entire pot of sauce on fire.

It's like Christmas '39 all over again.

"I told you not to let the sauce stick, Steve," Bucky sighs, taking a step back to watch the smoke being quickly sucked through the ventilation system above the stove, "And what'dya do? Ya let the sauce stick." He backhands Clint's shoulder, who is doing his level best to keep the laughter off his face, and asks, "Didn't I tell him that Honey Bunny?"

And Steve, god love him, is hiding his shame behind his hands but it does nothing to hide the flush of his neck nor the smell of smoke, burnt tomatoes, and garlic, "I was stirring."

"Oh, I distinctly remember you telling Cap to not let the sauce stick, he didn't even need to watch for helicopters or nothing, easy job," Clint replies with a grin, hooking his chin over Bucky's shoulder, "Hey, Pumpkin. You remember what he said after insisting that he could handle it on his own?"

"Oh, I'm already on it," Tony laughs, his arms coming to rest on Steve's broad shoulders, "Jarvis, play back what the good Captain said to Barnes, and then save it to the server for me. For posterity, of course."

Just when Bucky thinks Steve can't possibly get any redder, he is proven wrong when the video begins to play, "C'mon Buck, it's fine. I think I can handle stirring a sauce. I still out rank you Sargent, and if want me to pull rank, I'll gladly pull rank."

"It's alright, Stevie," Bucky sighs, dropping down onto the stool next to him, "Failure builds character. It humanizes you, chips away at all that war time propaganda that built you up as this perfect person that people still somehow believe in."

Steve just groans, burying himself deeper into the relative safety of his forearm fortress, "I'm never living this down, am I?"

"Nope," Tony replies, returning Bucky's grin with a leer of his own, "Pizza sound good? Pizza? I'm taking your silence as a resounding yes. J, hit up Naples 45 for the supersoldier special."

"Of course, sir."

"And get garlic knots!"

"Of course, Agent Barton."

The Supersoldier Special from Naples 45 was ten pies — four classic margarita, three pepperoni and three sausage with caramelized onions — a large, catering sized antipasto salad and rigatoni alfredo with broccoli and chicken intended for twelve people which Steve and Bucky could finish off cleanly between the two of them.

The pizza is admittedly a bit fancy for Bucky's tastes but he isn't going to complain about high quality, authentic southern Italian cooking, _especially_ if Tony is footing the bill.

Natasha hangs back with Sam as everyone else makes themselves a plate and moves into the lounge; Clint quickly vaulting over and then commandeering the largest sofa for his and Bucky's exclusive use while Tony attempts to talk Steve out of watching the four hour directors cut of Once Upon A Time In America.

"C'mon," Clint shouts around a mouth full of pizza, "Lets watch Wayne's World!"

Tony snaps his fingers and calls back with a grin, "Yes. Party time, excellent suggestion Barton. Jarvis, queue it up."

Bucky settles onto the couch as the movie begins, dropping a pizza box to his side and balancing his half of the pasta on his knee. He leans against Clint, shoulder to shoulder, murmuring, "So what cultural significance does Wayne's World have?"

"80's metalheads who have a most excellent cable access show," Clint replies, "They're pop culture icons who have imparted important life lessons that make us all better people."

Bucky raises an eyebrow as he watches Wayne Campbell commiserate on his impressive collection of name tags and hairnets, admittedly the man himself can stand to learn some life skills, "If you say so."

Clint shoots him a glowering look, "Who's the pop culture authority in this relationship me or you? Watch and learn, Pumpkin."

Despite his best efforts, Clint can't hold the glare for long, and his attention is soon drawn back to the movie, silently mouthing along with the dialogue. Bucky finds that he'd rather watch Clint watch the movie, but settles in for the viewing, knowing that Clint has a tendency to drop movie quotes into conversation, and Bucky can't stand the disappointment when he fails to catch them.

"I think it's time for a little _Bohemian_ _Rhapsody_ gentlemen," Clint and Tony parrot in unison, and as the opening credits begin to flash across the screen, Tony's head appears over the top of the couch, a blinding, manic smile fixed on his face.

"Barton, you want highs or lows?" He asks quickly as a rhythmic piano begins to play.

"I got lows," Clint replies, matching Tony's childlike grin, practically vibrating in his seat.

Clint and Tony begin to sing opera to one another, harmonizing wildly off key along with the movie, complete with sweeping hand gestures and over the top facial expressions. Bucky's attention, however, is dragged away by the sound of a phone vibrating in the very particular pattern which tells him Steve's just received a mission alert. There's a lull in the music, and Steve doesn't check right away, but Bucky's known the man long enough to see the small change in his posture and the tightening of the muscles in his shoulders.

As the music picks up again, Tony scrambles over the back of the couch to meet Clint, their voices overtaking that of the films. They pause as the notes hit too high for either man to carry, and the two promptly break out in, what Clint had once described to Bucky, aggressive head banging.

Steve takes the opportunity to glance down at his phone, and as Tony drops to his knees to play the exuberant air guitar to match Clint's wild, over the top drumming Steve stands, walking into the kitchen and Bucky follows.

"Everything alright?" Natasha asks, never taking her amused expression from the impromptu performance finishing up in the lounge.

"Three man mission, 0800 tomorrow," Steve mutters, frowning down at this phone, "You, me and Clint," he says to Sam, "Debrief en route."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and nods, "Where we headed?"

"Andean Mountain Range."

  
•••

"Have fun storming the castle," Bucky says with a wave, mentally memorizing Clint's blinding smile at his artful and entirely relevant movie reference.

Bucky is getting good at those, and Clint's smile has been great motivator.

While Clint and Natasha continue their pre-mission pep talk, Bucky finds his way over to where Steve and Tony are having a rather _spectacular_ argument over why Tony, as a consultant, isn't going on this mission, and how now is not the time to be arguing over how Tony could be covert if he so choses to be because they're leaving _right_ _now Tony._

Tony is the unstoppable force to Steve's immovable object; they really are made for each other.

"Barnes," Tony says as Bucky claps a hand on Steve's shoulder, "Tell Steven to stop being stubborn and let me come as back up."

Bucky lets out a sharp bark of laughter, rolling his eyes as Steve bristles with 220lbs of righteous indignation, "I've been trying since the 1920s. If you find a way to bust thru this blockade of stupid, you lemme know. We can write a book, be a best seller."

Tony beams, and then turns that wicked smile in Steve's direction, "Its two against one, Rogers. What you gonna do?"

"Oh, no no," Bucky laughs, his hands up in surrender, "You're all on your own in this fight. Steve's right, this is a covert mission. You don't do subtle well."

"What, and Barton does!?" Tony throws his hands in the air, shoving them through his hair and locking them behind his head, "Barton _barely_ qualifies as an adult, I have personally woken him from dumpsters. I've seen him fall off buildings."

"I don't fall, I jump," Clint corrects as he and Natasha make their way to the quinjet, "Also, _hello_ , highly qualified S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who never misses his shot. Now let's get this show on the road kids, I'm getting antsy."

"The Bird Bros got this, Stark," Bucky says as Tony fumes, "When they need a shiny red and gold distraction, I'm sure they know who to call."

Bucky sends them off with a kiss to Clint's temple, a promise to Steve to keep an eye on Tony, and a pointed stare in Sam's direction which he hopes is interpreted as keep an eagle eye on both of those knuckleheads.

Natasha bumps shoulders with Bucky, linking her arm with his own as they watch the quinjet disappear into the cloud cover, saying, "Clint said I get to borrow you until he gets back tomorrow. Get dressed, we're going out."

"I am dressed," he replies, gesturing down to his black tee shirt and basketball shorts.

Natasha sighs, ribbing him gently with her elbow, "Make yourself presentable and meet me in the garage."

•••

Bucky asserts that they comprised by taking two motorcycles.

Apparently, Natasha doesn't see the point in driving a car through Manhattan, and while she does has a point, like hell is Bucky going to ride behind Natasha. So he put his best Steve Rogers foot down and refused to budge, leaving him scrambling onto Steve's chopper as Natasha peels out of the garage and takes off down 6th ave.

After running a few red lights and breaking numerous traffic laws, Natasha pulls over by a food cart — Anton's Dumplings, red and white font, so very soviet — crowded with people during the lunch rush.

She stands off to the side, and the man behind the counter catches her eye with a head nod. They exchange pleasantries in Russian, their native dialects going straight over the heads of the college students waiting on some street meat.

He didn't even take the next order before he reaches over waiting heads and hands off a white plastic bag. Natasha looks over her shoulder at Bucky and motions with her head, waiting for him to fall in line before taking off towards Washington Square Park.

She hands over the bag with a knowing smile, and Bucky peaks inside to find three white cardboard boats holding dozens of Russian dumplings, and he can't stop matching her now open grin, "Anton's has the best _pelmeni_ in the city."

Bucky is brought straight back to training in the bite of Siberian winters and missions spent on long, frigid nights perched on rooftops, eyes locked unblinkingly through the scope of his rifle. He'd be sent out with a sack of frozen dumplings packed inside of a cast iron pot; a simple meal boiled in melted snow and eaten hastily with metal fingers.

He was usually fed a high protein, calorie dense slop that resembled a gray, off colored snot and tasted much the same, so to be given dumplings was a rarity and one of the very few, simple pleasures he partook in while under Hydra's thumb.

She guides him along the path as they enter the park and then let's him take the lead on where to sit. Natasha so very rarely lets someone else take charge, especially Bucky, so he's going to count this as a win.

"Why haven't you gotten back into the field yet?" Natasha asks him, slipping into Russian as they settle between two trees, which is a loaded question dropped as easily as if asking the time. Bucky has to hand it to her, the woman went straight for the jugular. "You're obviously of sound mind. I thought I was going to have to physically stop you from getting on that quinjet with Steve and Clint, so imagine my surprise when you willing let them go."

Bucky looks up from his meal to find Natasha's gaze unwavering, and he knows he's not going to be able to brush off this conversation with a shrug, so he replies, "I don't do that anymore."

Her expression never wavers, she simply straightens her shoulders, folds her hands in her lap, and waits.

Well then, Bucky can wait too. If he can lay on top of a building in the freezing, unrelenting rain for two days waiting for a mark, he can outlast Natasha Romanov.

"I'm not Steve, James," She begins, ending their staring contest, "I'm not Clint. I'm not trying to appeal to your sense of duty, or engage your emotions. I want to understand why, logically, a man with your skill set sits on the sidelines."

"You've seen what I'm capable of."

Natasha shakes her head, "In the wrong hands, sure. Stop deflecting and answer my question."

"What about you, why do you do it."

She smiles, "Balancing my books. You may have been doing this longer, but I was born with two guns in my hands. I have a lot of blood to wash from my hands."

"You're trying to do the right thing," Bucky says, "Ain't nothing wrong with that. There's honor in that."

Natasha nods, then her gaze shifts, her voice quiet as she continues, "My hands may never be clean. I was raised to do this." The practiced nonchalance of her voice betrays the enormity of what she says, "I don't know anything else."

Bucky frowns, "Just because I'm trained to be the perfect weapon, doesn't mean I wanna continue to be one."

"How many people have passed us since we sat down here?"

Bucky answers 67 before he even realizes what's asked of him, scowling at the smug kitten expression on her face, "Don't you look at me with that tone of voice, Doll. I'm retired and unless some end of the world type shit goes down, I'm staying retired. I don't know if you noticed, but I have a pretty swell set up. I'm living in a god damn science fiction novel with my best friend, I've got Clint and I'm fulfilling a life long dream of moochin' handily off a Stark, it's great."

"You are a primal force of nature, James. I don't want you to be afraid of it," popping a dumpling in her mouth before continuing, "Are you afraid of what would happened if you were triggered?"

Bucky frowns, before repeating, "You've seen what I'm capable of."

"Do you truly think that I would have let you anywhere near Clint if there was any indication that you would harm him?" She asks, eyebrows raised, "Clint is very important to me, and I treasure him dearly."

"I'd never hurt him, you gotta know that."

She smiles, "I know. You're a good man James Barnes, but you're never gonna knock that urge," Natasha says, her words gentle and far too soft, "Half the time I don't think you realize that you're doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Analyzing. Calculating sight lines and running through a battery of assessments. Look at where you sat us." Bucky looks around for the first time, tucked deep into the tree line, invisible to the winding footpath and prying eyes and damn, she's right, "I see these things, and Clint see's these things because we do it too, but when it's all said and done, you are better than us. You see things that even we don't."

Bucky sits back, stunned by her admission, yet Natasha never lets him out of her gaze and he feels so small.

Bucky is saved by the bell, however, when his phone rings, and he shimmies where he sits to fish his phone out of his front pocket. He glances up to see Natasha's questioning expression, before switching back over to English, "Hello?"

"Bucky Blue Eyes, how we doin'?" Bucky's face splits open into a grin, ignoring Natasha's increasingly inpatient expression, "You busy? I got some gossip."

"I'm at Washington Square Park on a lunch date," he answers, "With Natasha." The excited gasp from Marla's end of the line — seeing as how Clint has somehow managed this far to prevent their esteemed acquaintance — is all Bucky needs to hear, before continuing, "Clint's overseas, you want us to—"

"Yeah yeah, come on over. That's 20 minutes away, be here in 10."

She hangs up before he can reply, and Bucky can only grin at the bewildered face on Natasha's face, "Say," he begins, "How'd you like to meet Mars?"

"You've met Marla?" Natasha asks slowly, looking equally parts surprised and impressed before she slips back into her normal, neutral facade.

"And then some," Bucky laughs, bagging up their trash, "She's been keeping an eye open and says she's got some intel on Clint's mob problem."

Her lips purse into a straight line, but she nods, gracefully climbing to her feet.

"You ready for this?" Bucky asks, holding his hidden, metal arm out for Natasha to take as they begin walking back towards the street, "I feel like I gotta warn you, she's probably not what you're expecting."

She hums noncommittally, easily linking her arm with his. Bucky can't put into words how normalizing it is that Natasha is seemingly unphased by his arm. Clint has all but forgotten it was there, as accepting of its existence as Bucky is, but it means a lot when Natasha doesn't shy away from it anymore.

Especially when Bucky knows that he's the guest star in some of her worst nightmares.

As they make their way back to their motorcycles, to anyone else they must look like a good looking couple, strolling around the Village for lunch, never knowing that they were walking past two of the most highly skilled assassins the world has ever known. It still amazes Bucky the kind of anonymity a pair of dark tinted sunglasses and the chaos of rush hour can grant them, yet even after everything, Bucky keeps his eyes on the skyline while Natasha, no doubt, is assessing and reassessing every person and car they pass as a potential threat.

She's right, old habits die hard, he supposes.

•••

Natasha is surprisingly tense as they pull up in front of Mars' bar front, hesitating only slightly before hauling herself off her bike and shoving her helmet under her arm with purpose.

Bucky isn't gonna tease her about it — he leaves that honor and privilege for Clint when he gets back — he just loops his arm around her shoulders and gently pushes her forwards like he wasn't guiding the woman to her very death.

He can understand the apprehension. Marla is just as much of a myth to Nat as Nat is to Marla. Much like his apartment building in Bed Stuy, Clint keeps the different parts of his life in very well defined and well contained boxes. It only hits him now that Clint has so easily involved Bucky in all aspects of his life, and if Natasha asks, he's not blushing.

It's having to layer up in the heat to hide his arm, is all.

Bucky doesn't need super-soldier enhanced senses to hear hushed, insistent voices behind the solid wooden door as they approach. He can make out Marla's choppy cadence and the soothing rumble under Emerson's words, the dogs underfoot already at the door.

The door swings opens and Lucky comes barreling out between Marla's bare legs, slamming into Bucky's knees before proudly sitting directly on his feet.

Natasha looks down at the dog with a scowl, muttering, "Traitor."

Marla follows, practically bouncing down the stoop with Ante on her heels, looking like she just stumbled out of bed. Her hair is a wreck, wayward curls sticking up every which way, and Bucky can't tell if the woman is wearing shorts under the Columbia tee-shirt that falls just above her knees.

The tee-shirt hangs loosely off one shoulder, and he gets a glimpse of a rather impressive tattoo that had been hidden by the fresh pressed Oxford shirt she wore when they first met. She has the distinct look of a little girl on a Christmas morning — wild eyes and a manic grin — as her bare feet carry her into the street.

"Hey Mars," Bucky begins, "This is—"

"I know _exactly_ who this is," Marla says excitedly, completely ignoring Bucky to stand directly in front of an increasingly wary Natasha.

There is a second there when Bucky thinks Natasha is going to bolt, but she isn't given the opportunity. Without any preamble, Marla grabs Natasha's hand and all but drags the woman up the steps as they disappear into the row house.

He looks down at Lucky with raised brows and Lucky answers with a bark, his tail happily thumping against his shin.

"Yeah, you and me both, buddy boy."

He looks up to find Emerson leaning against the door frame, an exasperated smile on her face, "Forgive her manners," she begins, walking down the steps and greeting Bucky with a kiss to the cheek like they're old friends, "I'm sure she's just as pleased to see you, but Natasha is shiny and new and Marla is still firing on all pistons after a late night."

Bucky just grins, "How you been, Em?"

She shrugs, tucking a stray blonde hair behind her ear, "All's well on the western front, Sarge." She tilts her head towards the door, "C'mon, it's too quiet in there for my liking."

"Is silence not golden in his century?"

She huffs, shaking her head, "I have twelve younger siblings, silence means trouble where I'm from."

Bucky shuffles Lucky off of his feet, and the dog dashes back thru the open door like he lives there — although, that is a fair assessment. Lucky is used to being shuffled around — and Emerson follows, Bucky closing the door behind him.

Emerson places a hand on her wife's shoulder, "Behave yourself," she warns, bending down to attach a lead to Lucky's collar, "I'm gonna take Lucky with me to the bodega," Emerson says, kissing Marla's awaiting cheek, "Do you need anything?"

"Yeah, get me a pack of rolling papers and a slush puppy," she replies, "Ante needs to go out too y'know."

Emerson smirks, rolling her eyes, "Nice try, Love. House rules are still in effect, she goes where you go. We'll be back in a bit. I'm leaving you in charge, girl," she says, scratching behind Antes ear, "Make sure she stays out of trouble."

Marla waves her off and manhandles Natasha into a far corner booth with her back to the far wall; next to the kitchen and the hidden stairwell, but away from the bathrooms, good sight lines of the front door and the rest of the open room from the wall length mirror that hangs behind rows of top shelf liquor. It's strategically perfect, and he has to wonder if she chose this particular spot to make Natasha feel comfortable.

Or maybe she just likes this booth. He reminds himself that not everyone is running constant threat assessments like he does.

Marla drags a chair over, swinging it around and sliding on backwards, her chin propped up on her hand. Without even a glance, she beckons Bucky over with a wave of her hand over her shoulder.

Bucky is sure there is some kind of silent conversation going on between the spy and the card shark, a complex confabulation of kinesics and micro-expressions, and while he is used to silent conversations between Natasha and Clint, this is something he isn't prepared for.

Natasha is a nothing but professional, her face held completely rock steady; every tick, every twitch, every little minute movement is calculated and precise, unless one knew, really knew, what to look for, she could sell you anything she wants you to believe.

This, Bucky understands. He did the same thing, credibility assessments, evaluating truthfulness and detecting deception. Most every person on the planet had the same tells, it was something they couldn't control and he used it to his advantage to gain the upper hand in every situation.

Marla though? She is something else.

She takes the stone cold poker face and knocks it completely sideways. Marla seems manic, her face in constant, subtle motion with the smallest of tics, twitches, any and every expression flashing across her face so quickly, it's hard to keep track and pick the truth from the static.

Bucky has witnessed interrogations before — silent and imposing in the corner, his handlers would use him a tool to invoke fear and lose lips — and he knows that Natasha is a woman with a knack of prying state secrets out of the strongest of men. Yet he figures no amount hours spent training in deception detection would have prepared them for dealing with whatever game Marla spent decades perfecting.

They carry on like this for a few minutes, leaving Bucky to wonder what's being understood in what's left unsaid when Marla grins, drumming her hands on the table as a sharp bark of laughter slices the mounting tension.

"Oh, I like her. She's good," Marla sighs happily, "Very fucking good, you ever been to Monaco? It'll be worth ya while, you'll go home a much richer woman."

Natasha frowns, "You said you had information about the men after Clint?"

Marla nods, spinning the chair around proper and pooling into the seat. She's shuffling a deck of cards, where she managed to pull a deck out of Bucky didn't notice, expertly and mindlessly shuffling as she speaks, "So, we're not dealing his tracksuits or his Draculas or whatever the fuck he call 'em. I have it on very good authority we're dealing with the Bratva, Soviet rejects who set up shop after the Cold War, but it makes things tricky trying to track down who ordered what."

"Why?" Bucky asks.

"They're not at neatly organized as the Costa Nostra," Natasha replies, much to Marla's delight.

Marla nods, "They're a mish mash of bullshit, that's what. They all fly flags and kick back to the motherland, but 'sides that there's no real solid hierarchy to follow but I'm sure as shit this ain't about his buddies in the track suits."

"What makes you say that?" Natasha asks.

"Ain't their style," Marla answers, "Extortion, racketeering, arms trafficking," she lists, counting off on nimble fingers, "Hell, insurance fraud is their bread and butter. Ivan's got a temper and a rep a mile wide, but he's impatient. If he was sendin' someone after Barton, not even Broseph Stalin is dumb enough to send his goons to my place. This guy? This guy gotta be new in town, no ones dumb enough to send armed foot soldiers knockin' on my door."

"What makes you say that?" Natasha asks, the tone of her voice level but with an underlying hint of contempt.

"Call it professional courtesy," Marla answers easily, "I am very good at what I do, and the house always takes their cut. The mob ain't gonna cut into their profits by takin' out their golden goose so long as I stick to poker."

Natasha's face closes up, her eyes narrowed as she says, "We're leaving."

"Nat," Bucky begins, but Marla holds a hand up to stop him.

"Hey, its fine," she says, never breaking eye contact with Natasha, "Slow ya roll sweetheart, we're only just gettin' acquainted. Look, I don't want you having any disillusions about me, I make a livin' lying, but I'm off the clock right now. I can tell it's making you real uncomfortable that you can't read me like everyone else, and I gotta tell ya, I take that as a high compliment."

She shifts, folding her legs under her and rests her weight on her elbows, cradling her chin in her palm, "You got every reason not to trust me because you're good at your job too, ain't that right."

"How can we trust someone with such a blatant conflict of interest?"

"Barton trusts me."

"Barton's not here."

"You're _killing_ me, Red," Marla groans, dragging her hands across her face as a crease forms at her brow. Her eyes dart back and forth between Bucky and Natasha before she shakes her arms out, resolutely placing her hands palms up on the table.

"I don't do this for fucking _nobody_ , okay, but we gotta be on the same page here. So from one con artist to another, grab my pulse point, look me in the eye and tell me I'm lying when I tell you I'm in Barton's corner."

The change is drastic and immediate as she lets the mask melt from her face. Her face relaxes, and free from the practiced performance and bravado, she's tired and looks more her age. When she looks at Natasha, for the first time open and without a drop of deceit, she wouldn't need to say anything at all because Bucky knows.

"I may be a criminal, but I ain't no bad guy," Marla insists, "I ain't never felt bad for what I do, how I make my money or protect what's mine. The list of human beings I give the slightest shit about I can count on one hand, and Barton is on that list. You gotta believe I'd put him over a payday. Whoever this motherfucker is, he was dumb enough to send a tail straight to my door, and Bucky saw how well that worked out for them."

Natasha glances at Bucky, who can only laugh, "She came out the gate swinging a sledgehammer. 3 to 1 and the guys had guns drawn. It was impressive and surprisingly effective."

This, of all things, earns Marla the smallest appreciative quirk of the lips.

Natasha keeps two fingers over Marla's wrist and watches her with eyes that see entirely too much, looking through her as much as at her, when she finally nods.

Marla seems grateful to gain Natasha's approval, and Bucky can't lie and say he's not relieved himself. The last thing he wants to do is have to step in between these two women.

The conversation flows easily after the impromptu lie detection session and he sits back and watches the two women swap stories — apparently, Clint has been eating questionably old food off questionably clean surfaces since the early 90s — both beaming with a sort of exasperated fondness that goes hand in hand with Clint Barton.

Bucky wonders if he'd'a stayed on with Marla or if he would'a moved on to bigger and better paying jobs if Phil Coulson didn't give him a Get Out Of Jail Free Card. She made it seem like she saw him less and less and they climbed their separate criminal ladders, but if he came to her, all those years later, after Loki, he has to assume they'd still be running around, causing hell.

When Natasha tells her the story of how Clint swooped in and changed her life for the better, she's met with a sentimental smile.

"Yeah, that sounds like Barton," Marla says with a small depreciating smile, "Clint always had more conscience than I knew what to do with. You gotta have a tiny, little interior deadness to play at my level. He wears Good Guy well, I'm proud'a him."

"What about you?" Bucky asks, "You never wanted'a go legit, play the casino circuit?"

Marla leans back in her chair, grinning, "Oh, honey. My picture's in the Big Black Book of damn near every gamblin' commission in this country, they don't tolerate old time hustlers like me anymore." She gets quiet, twirling her simple silver wedding band around her finger, "I'm glad Barton got out when he did, he's too good a guy to be running around this mess," she looks up at Natasha, an honest sincerity in her gaze, "I'm glad he found you, both'a you. His brother Barney is a real bastard, and for a while there, he was all he had. Clint was cut from a different cloth than him."

"I can help," Natasha insists, "We both can."

Marla just snorts, "Look, not for nothin', but you guys are considered heroes—" Bucky begins to protest, because he knows he's done more harm than good, but Marla silences him with a pointed finger, "I don't wanna hear it Barnes, you and Rogers are fucking local celebrities and you make Barton smile like he did when we was young. As far as I'm concerned, you're a good guy in my book. I'm the kinda lady that roots for the bad guys in movies. Like it or not, these are my kinda people, I gotta handle on this, don't you worry 'bout it. You just do me a favor and keep an eye on Barton and maybe try not to fuck up my wife's commute every god damn time some big bad come stomping through the fuckin' city."

Natasha frowns, but then nods. She makes eye contact with Bucky, and he can see the wariness in her eyes. Natasha clearly doesn't trust her fully, but he can tell she appreciates the woman's up front demeanor and he knows that she can see how dearly Marla cares for Clint.

"Deal."

•••

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note, I am an actual adult. I work two jobs, I have my own places and I pay my own bills and everything. 
> 
> Yet I still aggressively attempt to cover all the highs, mids and lows of bohemian rhapsody. I've been told I'm a very embarrassing person to be out with in public.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone handles stress differently, but Tony has a hard time comprehending how Natasha and Bucky cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, part 2.

It's been 68 hours.

68 hours of total radio black out, and if Tony is feeling a bit on edge and more than slightly confrontational, sue him.

He can afford it.

"Jarvis, hit me with the time."

He needs a drink, he thinks, as he sits on the floor of his workshop surrounded by the disassembled parts of one of the four-barrel carburetors from his 1967 Shelby G.T. 500. There is nothing wrong with it, but he needs to keep his hands busy otherwise nothing will stop him from hacking into every and any security feed in the entirety of South America until he knows for certain Steve hasn't gotten himself killed.

"It's almost midnight, Sir."

And honestly? He would really appreciate it if Jarvis would stop reminding him of the illegality of that plan every time he comes close to a keyboard. Frankly, it's an all together great plan, especially when compared to strapping on a suit, hauling ass to the mountain range straddling the boarder of Chile and Argentina, and dragging Steve's big, blonde, star spangled ass home himself.

He wonders if he can plant a tracker in Steve without him knowing. Why not? He has the technology, the capability. He has the power. If anyone could do it, it most certainly would be him.

He pauses, socket wrench in hand, and he can hear Jarvis remind him how that is a major violation to Captain America's constitutionally guaranteed right to privacy.

Huh.

Has his AI melded with his consciousness, how long has he been awake?

"71 hours, 46 minutes, Sir," Javis replies — oh god, did he say that out loud? _Can_ _Jarvis_ _read_ _his_ _mind_. — before continuing, "May I suggest you try to get some sleep, I will alert you the moment we hear from Captain Rogers."

Tony scoffs, scrambling to feet, "I'll sleep when I'm dead, you know that."

He should have gone with them. He should be there.

"Then may I suggest something to eat? Agent Romanov and Sargent Barnes are currently in the common room, Sir."

Tony is already on his way, and he storms into the common room, a verifiable E5 tornado of tired, cranky and emotionally wrecked because the world can't just fuck off for five minutes and let Captain America live.

He nearly trips over himself when he rounds the corner to find that Natasha and Barnes have pulled two of the larger couches together and, to their credit, have built themselves a rather impressive nest of blankets and pillows, and Tony wishes he could say that's the weirdest sight he stumbled upon, but no.

They're both decked out head to toe in officially licensed Hawkeye merch — purple bullseye bespeckled pants and matching I Heart Hawkeye tee shirts — and never in a million years would he have believed that The Winter Soldier would be painting Black Widows nails, but here they are because this is his weird, domestic life now.

"Am I interrupting an official meeting of the Hawkeye Fan Club?" Tony asks the pair as he recovers, making a bee-line to the coffee maker, "I'm very upset to not have been invited to join, by the way."  
  
They merely smirk at him and continue to talk as if he isn't there, swapping stories of Barton's many misadventures with common household objects. As Tony makes his coffee and contemplates maybe actually trying to eat something of substance, a thought comes to him.

"Okay, I have to ask," Tony says, "The two of you seem incredibly calm given the current events of the past few days. Is nesting a Russian assassin coping mechanism?"

"Not Russian," Barnes corrects, rolling his eyes at Natasha before reaching for her other hand.

"We're not worried," Natasha says calmly, looking down at her nails, "Steve stomped his way across Europe with nothing but his shield and a can-do attitude, they're fine."

"It's true," Barnes says with a grin, "I was there. He shot guns and everything."

"And he did that with your fathers tech," she smiles slowly, before saying, "Are you implying that your fathers tech kept Steve safer than yours can?"

"No," Tony sputters indignantly, "Absolutely not, I'm the best. Also, how dare you."

"So, backed by the very best tech the world can currently offer them, we are going to continue running on the assumption that they're fine." Her expression is soft, but her tone speaks with a finality that Tony won't fight.

She's right, he knows. No one makes tech like Tony Stark makes tech, and he trusts his tech more than he trusts himself. Steve himself is stubborn enough to deny the reaper, and Sam and Barton, as much as it pains him to admit, are dangerously good at their jobs.

"So the two of you having a slumber party has nothing to do with being worried we've had zero contact," Tony asks, leaning against the couch as he sips his nth — 9th, his Jarvis brain reminds him and wow, okay he does need to get some _actual_ sleep — cup of coffee of the day.

"Not worried," Barnes repeats as he finishes with the last of Natasha's nails with flourish.

"Yeah," Tony answers, "I got that part. I just don't understand how you're being so calm. I expected brooding in dark corners and maybe some dead interns or paper pushers, not a scene from the babysitters club."

Barnes shrugs, reaching over the arm of the couch to place the bottle of nail polish on the side table, "As president," Natasha shoots him a scowl, "Sorry, co-president, of the Official Hawkeye Fan Club, I feel like I gotta mention that Clint'll probably

survive the apocalypse. We just miss him, is all."

To prove a point, Disney's Robin Hood begins playing, and the pair of deadly assassins settle into the couch. Natasha shifts, moving from one side of their nest to sit closer to Bucky, carefully patting her now empty spot.

"I'm covered in grease," Tony says, supplying his near black hands as proof, "and I smell like science."

"Don't make her ask twice, Stark," Barnes says, nudging Tony's thigh with his elbow, "C'mon, don't be a dick. Grab a pillow and watch the movie with us."

Tony does as asked, kicking his shoes off and leaving dignity at the door as he climbs into the surprising comfortable nest they've built. Natasha smirks in victory, shuffling again until she's pressed up against Tonys side and deposits a foot in Barnes lap, eyebrows raised expectantly. As he comes to terms with how weird this all is — watching Disney movies while The Winter Soldier gives Black Widow a foot massage — he feels the near constant rush of anxiety melt out of him. For the first time in what feels like days, his mind is here and present and not running through the million unanswerable what if questions of the future.

"We're not worried," he breathes out, more as an affirmation to himself than anything else.

Natasha nods, then repeats, "Not worried."

Barnes reaches into the pillows and grabs his phone, his face lighting up in the dimness of the room, "For the next 9 hours anyway."

Tony stills, "What happens in 9 hours?"

"Activation of pre-established unscheduled break in contact contingency," Barnes and Natasha recite in unison, neither feeling this information is important enough to take their eyes from the screen.

"It's a doomsday countdown," Barnes explains nonchalantly, "If we don't hear from Clint by the 90 hour mark, then we worry."

Tony nods, turning his attention away from the fact that of course the spy and the assassin have contingency plan in place for absolutely everything and back towards the movie.

Half an hour later, Steve breaks radio silence.

Tony then witnesses first hand how Barnes and Natasha worry.

Russian is a terrifying language, he thinks with a shiver, especially when whispered harshly between two of the scariest people he's ever met.

He really needs that goddamn drink.

•••

From start to finish, the mission was fucked up beyond recognition.

Intel told them to expect a skeleton crew of guards, and what they walked into was a crew one hundred deep armed to the teeth. Which, while inconvenient, is something they've trained for and they handled it in stride.

He didn't plan on Hydra blowing their own base.

He _should've_ planned on Hawkeye taking down a helicopter with a grappling arrow and still being attached to said helicopter as it made a controlled flight into terrain — which is just a fancy euphemistic way of saying it crashed into the side of a god damn mountain — 20 klicks out.

Bucky is gonna kill the both of them.

•••

Clint complains the entire way to medical.

Bucky is going to kill him, probably. Or at least that's what Steve said when he took one look at Clint after he helped haul him into the back of the quinjet.

The curtains are drawn, but he knows there's an agent or four standing guard in the hall. He looks around the room, deflating at the high ceilings and the very intentional lack of stackable furniture, making the only vent, and his favored mode of escape, inaccessible.

God damn medics.

They're learning.

Clint hasn't spoken to Bucky yet, but he's sure he Steve filled him in already. Clint did the one thing that Bucky told him not to do — "Just do me the favor and try to keep both feet on solid ground, Honey Bunny" — now he's locked in this fucking hospital room and Bucky is gonna kill him.

Great.

He hopes the painkillers kick in before he gets here, soften the blow a bit.

Really, in all fairness, it could've been a lot worse. A decision was made on the fly, so Clint put trust in himself and his equipment as he made his carefully calculated — well, more instinctual than anything, if he's going to be honest with himself — leap of faith.

It's not like he _fell_ off the damn building. Rather, he was towed off the roof in a spectacular fashion via the grappling hook he shot into the helicopter as he made his great escape out of Fuckedville. It was either that, or go down with the building he was perched upon, and he's getting too old to be digging himself out of rubble.

Clint is of the belief that when a building begins to collapse underfoot, it's perfectly acceptable to leap before he looks, and then build his wings on the way down if necessary. It's worked well for him in his 38 years of life, why shake it up now?

He assumes the reason why Nat didn't intercept him on his way down to medical is because she's finally been banned. She's always been the one to spirit him away before even reaching this point, and her absence answers more questions than it raises.

Alright, it looks like he's on his own on this one.

He exhales deeply through his nose, wiggling back into the hospital bed as he stares at the vent, fiddling mindlessly with the IV port, and develops a plan of action. He's pretty banged up — there's a huge gash across his forehead that's already clotted, he's covered in soot, sweat and blood, the entire left side of his body is blossoming into a painful bruise and he definitely stubbed his big toe at some point — but it's nothing that serious. It just looks a lot worse than it is because head wounds tend to bleed like a motherfucker but he's fairly certain he's not even gonna need staples this time, which is nice.

Cap is such a hypocrite. He practically dumped Clint into a gurney himself and held a heavy hand on his shoulder, ensuring he wasn't going anywhere. He was handed off to a doctor and two agents who escorted him all the way down to his room. The agents stood guard and made sure he was hooked up to an oxygen monitor on his finger, mainlining a heavy round of antibiotics and painkillers, knowing he'll be stuck here afterwards.

Meanwhile, Clint knows damn well that the good captain is most likely hiding out somewhere — hiding from Bucky is more like it, he thinks with a huff — letting Sam fish the bullet out of his shoulder as he actively avoids debrief.

Steve left him in medical as bait, the little shit, he's sure of it. Bucky has made it abundantly clear how much he hates when Steve takes unnecessary risks, healing factor or not. Clint bets Tony has him and Sam tucked away in the relative safety of the penthouse, and the three of them are all having a great laugh for what awaits Clint while they hide like cowards.

It's not like Bucky can hold going airborne against him, right? Clint has made it _abundantly_ clear during the tenure of their relationship that Clint's thought processes are about 80% finely tuned instinct, 15% potentially reckless but absolutely badass behavior and rounded out with 5% of cat-like reflexes.

Wait. No, that can't be right.

Hawk-like reflexes? No, doesn't have the same ring to it. Do cats eat hawks? That seems counterproductive. _Do hawks eat cats?_  

With a giggle and a wiggle of his nose, the pain meds appeared to have kicked in, Clint realizes.

Oh man, that's right.

He's got to get out of here.

He rolls his shoulders and wiggles his toes, drawing out and cataloging every ache and stabbing pain as he tests his range of motion. He doesnt really have a lot of options without vent access, he's going to have to run a Hail Mary straight through the door, take on the hopefully junior agents standing guard outside, and then flee.

It's not a great plan, but it's a plan nonetheless and that gives Clint a well needed boost of confidence. He's got this, and really, it's just medical. He's broken out of worse places before when he was too worse for wear, and it's not like anyone will be _actively_ shooting at him.

He hopes.

Plan established, Clint gives himself affirmative nod. He'll only have seconds to get into position after he pulls off the oxygen monitor and the alarms on the machines start to blare, then it's just a mad dash to literally anywhere that's not here.

He grabs his aids and twists them into his ears, but pauses when something catches his eye. A screw falls out of the ceiling, and then another, before the vent swings open and a rope snakes it's way to the floor, and down slides Bucky, landing elegantly and silently on his feet.

Fuck, he's in _so_ much trouble.

There's a commotion outside, and Clint can hear Nat uncharacteristically causing a ruckus over not being allowed in, which, okay, is crazy weird. Nat doesn't kick up dust, she never gets loud, it's not her style. She slinks and she stalks, slipping between cracks, knowing she will get more accomplished with her scary soft voice than the belligerent drunk girl impression she's currently carrying on with.

Bucky stands — oh fuck, that's right — wiping the dust from his hands and his hair, before bringing a finger to his curved lips.

'Sorry we're late,' Bucky signs, quickly crossing the room, 'You look like shit Honey Bunny.'

'Thanks,' Clint signs, 'Please don't kill me.'

Bucky just shakes his head and smiles, that full on beautiful smile that shows too many teeth, leaning in to softly brush his lips against Clint's temple. Bucky glances over at the door — sharp, big, beautiful blue eyes always assessing, calculating — before he disengages the wheel locks of the hospital bed and Clint can only look on dumbfounded when Bucky shoves the IV stand into Clint's hand.

Natasha's voice rises again and Clint blinks as he brain catches up, he turns back to Bucky because _oh_.

Bucky isn't here to kill him.

They're breaking him out of here.

With a wry, conspiratorial grin, Bucky watches as Clint puts two and two together. He nods and slowly begins to inch the bed away from the wall, keeping an eye on the thick black cords tethering Clint to the far wall.

They make it with two feet to spare and the agents outside are none the wiser to the escape in progress. Bucky steps over and gives the rope a precautionary tug, before making eye contact with Clint and pointing up.

Bucky reaches over and carefully takes Clint's hand in his own, tenderly removing the needle from the IV port. They'll have roughly 10 seconds from the time Clint removes the monitor to when the alarm will start to blare before their cover is blown, so they have to make it quick.

'Ready?' Bucky signs, and Clint nods as enthusiastically all his stiff necks allows.

Bucky takes position under the vent, down on one knee with his metal arm held above his head, palm up. Clint shimmies down as far as the oxygen monitor cord will allow him, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and trying not to shiver as his bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor. He and Bucky lock eyes, and with one last reassuring smile, Clint rips off the oxygen monitor and makes a run for it.

In barely two steps, he makes it to Bucky, climbs onto his thigh and steps up into his awaiting hand. Bucky stands and extends his metal arm out completely, using their combined height to lift Clint straight into the ventilation shaft. It feels natural and practiced, like Bucky's been breaking Clint out of places for years, and he's going to write off the head rush he receives as a result of his probable concussion and mainlining high quality pain killers and not due to _feelings_.

But when he finds the mechanics dolly waiting — with a handwritten note in Tony's perfectly blocky handwriting: don't say I never did anything for you — so his old and busted ass doesn't need to army crawl his way out of here, Clint's heart explodes. He doesn't have time to make sense of his increased heart rate or the flood of feel good hormones in his brain because he hears Bucky pushing the hospital bed back across the room to cover their tracks. He manages to push the dolly under his chest when Bucky pulls himself back into the duct work, closing the vent behind him.

Clint can just make out Bucky's face behind him, lit up by the ambient light, and he looks so young like this, eyes alight with the laughter he dares not voice.

"Let's go Honey Bunny," Bucky whispers, and he gives him a slight push.

They're already a few rooms away by the time the alarms sound, and they use the commotion of a missing Avenger to slip down into a storage closet around the corner and into the safety of the stair well.

Clint doesn't complain when Bucky notices him sway on his feet and hauls him into a bridal carry, he just brushes Bucky's hair behind his ear and tucks his head into the nape of his neck and accepts the ride.

•••

Bucky carries him all the way back to their suite, placing him gently on their bed and leaving him with a kiss before disappearing into the bathroom.

Clint keeps his eyes closed and begins to undress, yanking his boots off and kicking them across the floor. He lays back, too tired and numb to care that he's getting battle grime all over their clean sheets, deftly fumbling with his belt and the buttons of his pants, doing his best to wiggle his way out of them. His gloves and bracers come next, flung over his shoulder and hopefully landing somewhere on the floor.

He's about to start working on the million and one stupid straps on his tactical vest when Bucky returns, kneeling between his legs and taking over undressing duties, rolling his eyes as Clint tries to stop him — he's hurt, not an invalid. Bucky simply ignores his half hearted efforts, dexterous fingers quickly and efficiently tackle the straps, pushing his vest off of his shoulders and carefully pulling the black undershirt over his head.

Clint finally relents and lets Bucky do all of the heavy lifting; he is dead on his feet, so unbelievably tired and _really_ feeling his age — Clint's getting too old for this shit, man.

Wait. When did Clint assign himself to the Murtaugh to Bucky's Riggs? If either of them is going to be Martin Riggs in Clint's own internal monologue — Clint is the one who has escaped a straight jacket underwater, and he wholeheartedly agrees that he can't shoot a dog. People okay, sure whatever but never dogs — it's gonna be him.

Bucky guides him into the already steamy bathroom, waiting for Clint to step out of his boxer briefs and hand over his hearing aids before he places him on the shower bench, faced away from the shower spray.

Bucky strips quickly, dropping his clothes into the hamper and grabs a clean wash cloth before joining Clint in the shower. He kneels on the tile floor, pointedly ignoring Clint's feeble protests, building a lather with a bar of antibacterial soap and begins to gently wipe away the blood and grime of the mission.

Bucky is so incredibly gentle and mindful of his injuries that Clint is left with no choice but to give into to Bucky's weird mother hen instincts. Clint can't take his eyes off him; this amazing, beautiful man who puts so much care into ensuring Clint is comfortable and clean, even if that means he himself is drenched, undoubtedly uncomfortable as he kneels on the hard shower floor.

Bucky rinses the washcloth out, black and rusty water swirling down the drain, before he gently takes Clint chin between his fingers to catch his attention.

'Wash face,' Bucky signs, 'Will hurt.'

Clint blinks lazily, a sloppy smile slipping slowly across his lips as he nods.

He's right, it stings like a bitch even thru the medicated fog, but he bites his lip and pushes through, knowing that his forehead will surely become infected if not throughly cleaned. He closes his eyes and breaths deeply through his nose, his fingers linked with the warm metal fingers firmly anchored on his hip.

Bucky grabs the shower head off the wall and tilts his head back, running soapy fingers through Clint's hair. He turns the warm spray of water on the rest of his body, quickly rinsing the suds away as Clint leans heavily against the wall.

Turning the water off, Bucky grabs Clint's chin again, then signs, 'Wait.'

Bucky returns with a towel and Clint's fluffiest, most comfortable purple sweatpants, guiding him out of the shower. Clint grabs the towel, giving his body a quick rub down before unsteadily stepping into his pants, grabbing onto Bucky's shoulder for balance. He's guided over to the toilet, where he sits patiently as Bucky applies a few butterfly stitches to his forehead for good measure.

Bucky tries to hand over his hearing aids, but Clint pushes his hand away. He's tired and welcomes the quiet right now, and Bucky understands.

Taking Clint's hand, he pulls the man to his feet and guides him to the lounge, stopping only to grab a blanket off of their bed.

Flopping down on the couch, Bucky assumes the position — arms spread invitingly, one foot firmly planted on the ground, the other leg bent against the back of the couch — and Clint slots in between Bucky's legs, resting his head on his sternum and finally, finally he's able to decompress.

Flesh fingers card their way through his hair, short fingernails tracing their way over and around the knobby bumps and ragged scar tissue, the pads of Bucky's thumb ghosting behind Clint's aid free ears to follow the lines of his jaw.

This is the most relaxed he's ever been post mission, and it seems so strange to think that an hour ago, Clint was entirely convinced Bucky was going to strangle him.

To say Clint feels like an idiot is a bit of an understatement.

Bucky makes him feel safe — from the world and from himself — and Natasha would surely kill him if she knew how deeply and without hesitation Clint trusts this man. Bucky's chest vibrates under Clint's cheek, but the fingers through his hair don't stop. He must be speaking to Jarvis because the light of the TV dances behind his closed eyelids.

It's moments like this, when they're alone and tangled up in each other, where Clint wonders if anyone really knows the Bucky Barnes of the 21st century. If they can see past the grumpy grump murder scowl and his impressive body count to see how gentle he can be, or how when he smiles, actually smiles, it lights up his entire face in a way that seems to erase the burden that Hydra has left him with.

Bucky's heart beats slowly and rhythmically under his cheek, and Clint can't help but smile as a metal hand settles on his hip. Bucky takes Clint's need for silence in stride, a warm and constant weight that Clint can attach to to keep himself grounded so he doesn't pull too far into himself.

That's when you know you've found somebody special, Clint realizes. When two people can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.

Clint's eyes snap open, heart rate rising, panic beginning to creep through his chest at the little errant thought that Bucky is his something special. The usual barrage of negative thoughts that try to wiggle into his brain, however, are astoundingly silent.

The million and one different reasons why he doesn't deserve to be this happy — he has an almost fanatical devotion to Dog Cops, he is an adult with not one article of clothing without a stain or hole, oh and he has a long history of waking up in various dumpsters across the city — never come. An unfamiliar warmth flows to his fingers and his toes and settles deep into his bones, and he can't help but smile.

Ah, _fuck_. He's balls deep in love with the bastard.

Because once upon a time, he would have chewed off his own foot rather than accept help post mission, choosing instead to stitch himself back together in the comfort of his own bathroom. He's been know to be a cantankerous bitch — Nat's words, not his — over being babied due to injury, but he just let Bucky carry and bathe him.

He lets Bucky carry him a lot, now that he thinks about it.

Until now, Clint's favored method of dealing with injuries and post mission stress was sitting on the couch in his underwear with a couple of beers, stuffing his face full of junk food, and succumbing to the sweet sirens song of a mindlessly entertaining Paulie Shore movie.

Yet here he is, plastered to Bucky like a wet blanket and ignoring whatever movie he put on in favor of listening to their heart beats slowly sync up.

It might be the drugs talking, or it could be the traumatic head injury, but he's never been happier and content with the plot of his biopic thus far.

Who knows, he may even get a happy ending.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint's gonna life forever.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is suspicious and Tony makes Clint and offer he, quite literally, can't refuse.
> 
> But hey, free food is free food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediately follows the events of the previous chapter. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own, blah blah blah you know the drill.
> 
> So, there's gonna be a ton of profanity, a bit of violence and a tiny itty bitty little bit of drug use. Nothing major.
> 
> And, wow. Over 500 kudos?! My fangirl heart can barely handle it, thank you my darling dears <3

Clint wakes up to a hand running through his hair and a soothing rumble under his cheek. Slender fingertips palpating the various bumps and scars, both new and old, before ghosting gently along the fresh gash on his forehead.

These aren't Bucky's fingers.

"Mornin' Nat," Clint mumbles into Bucky's chest, his eyes fluttering open to find Natasha sitting cross legged on the floor next to his couch, an odd expression on her face as she hold out his purple aids, "You miss me?"

She rolls her eyes as he puts in his aids, but her smile is soft and genuine as shoves a pair of pain killers and a cup of coffee into his hands.

"C'mon Honey Bunny, lemme up," Bucky murmurs, metal fingers rubbing circles around his good shoulder, "Breakfast is here."

"Nah," Clint yawns in response, handing the mug back to Natasha in favor of burrowing his face deeper into Bucky's chest, where he's met with a puddle of drool, "Aww, no, gross."

Bucky's laugh is low as he pokes and prods and wiggles his way out from under Clint, who whines at the loss of body heat, "Not the grossest way you've woken up. At least it's yours."

"You two are disgusting," Natasha sighs, but Clint can hear the amusement come through her monotonous tones.

Clint pouts, "You love us."

"It's a blessing and a curse," she replies, waiting until Bucky ambles out of the suite before pinching Clint's thigh, "Sam told me what happened. Idiot."

"Hey!" Clint yells, rubbing his thigh as he glares down Natasha's smirk, "You of all people should know how I roll, Nat. At least I didn't get shot like Cap."

This draws out a genuine smile from Natasha as she unfurls from the floor to sit next to where Clint is sprawled out on the couch, letting him curl himself around her to rest his head on her hip, "He's already gotten the 3rd degree from Tony for that," she says as she continues carding her fingers through his hair, "and of course I missed you _lastochka_."

Clint hums happily, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist to pull her closer. He oh so truly adores this woman and these little, quiet moments they get together, when it's just the two of them and she lets her guard down.

"Now that I have you alone and somewhat coherent," she begins in her calm and all knowing tone of voice, and Clint stills under her fingers because he know that means trouble for anyone on the receiving end, "I do have something to ask you."

"Is that so?" Clint asks, years of training the only thing keeping the trepidatious waver out of his voice as she continues her gentle caresses.

Oh god, he's knows what she's doing, she is using her soft voice and soft touches to keep his heart rate low, so when she yanks rug out from underneath his feet, the upswing in his blood pressure will force the truth out of him because his brain can't keep up.

That sneaky bitch, and he loves her even more for it.

"What I would like to know," she replies, the lightness of her voice doing nothing to quell the profound uneasiness Clint feels creeping through his body at the direction this conversation is heading, "is why it takes you getting mixed up with the Bratva for me to finally meet _Marla_."

There it is, the fucking kicker. He groans, wishing the couch would open up a single Clint Barton sized portal into the void so he could escape the inevitable.

"I'll take I Don't Know for $200, Alex," Clint laughs weakly, hoping his stellar sense of humor will get him out of this one, because it's not like he was intentionally hiding Marla from Natasha, but he also never really saw a reason to bring her back into his less than legal past, not when he got a do over with S.H.I.E.L.D.

"All I need to know," she says slowly, "is if we can trust her, because Bucky may be won over, I'm not entirely sold on what she's selling."

"Oh, yeah Nat. 100%. She's good shit right there," Clint replies immediately, "Born and baptized into the Church of Snitches Get Stitches, that's gotta stand for something. If you can't trust her, trust me. I know this may be shocking to hear, but I was a bigger idiot then than I am now. I was reckless and sloppy and just kinda blew into the city with nothing but a subway map and a give 'em hell attitude."

Natasha merely hums, a small crease forming between her brows, "She fits the profile of someone we shouldn't trust, especially if she stands to profit from the very people keeping their eye on you."

"It's not what it looks like," Clint insists, "I mean, yeah sure, she looks bad on paper, but she's an easy in."

Natasha looks unimpressed, "... with the Russians."

"I have an in with you and Bucky, and you guys are like, _the_ scariest Russians."

"Bucky isn't Russian."

"Technicalities."

Natasha sighs, "How do you know she won't sell you out for a blank check? I want to run surveillance on her, to be sure. You're obviously compromised."

"Nat, no. Just—" he exhales forcefully through his nose, as he takes her hands in his, "Look, you know that big ass pupper she's got that sticks to her like glue? Ante?" He waits for her small nod before continuing, "She's not just for show, that dog doesn't fuck around. She has one purpose in life, and her purpose is to protect Mars. If you go snooping around, all you're gonna find is 75lbs of teeth and fur that you won't be able to control because you don't speak their weird language. Ante has killed for her and Ante will die for her."

Natasha stills, narrowing her eyes slightly, "She doesn't even have a paper trail."

At this, Clint can't help but laugh, "What, like we do? Nothing wrong with a healthy dose of paranoia for The Man, Nat. I don't think she's ever intentionally filed a single official piece of paperwork in her life. Best you'll find are a bunch of mug shots from Rikers and from a couple of bids upstate, I don't think she's ever paid taxes. Everything is in her wife's name and according to the government, Em's clean."

"I just— help me understand, Clint," Natasha sighs, "She isn't the type of person that we trust. Is she another one of your strays?"

At this, Clint smiles softly and reaches out to tuck a wayward curl behind Natasha's ear, "No," he says, "I'm one of hers."

•••

_1994 Brooklyn, NY 3:08 am_

"Don't you fuckin' tell me to calm down, fuck you! You fuckin' shot me! You god damn motherfuckin' podunk piece of white trash shit!" Marla snarls as she launches her keys at Clint face — plucking them effortlessly out of the air does absolutely nothing to calm the enraged gambler in the slightest, if anything it takes it up to 11 — so he can fumble his way through unlocking her apartment door, "I can't believe you fucking— it's the green key c'mon c'mon, hurry the fuck up, I'm fuckin' dyin' here!"

"Oh excuse me, I didn't realize you have a degree in medicine," Clint says flatly, finally unlocking the door and dragging a frenzied and fervent Marla inside before any neighbors stick their heads out or, with his luck call the cops for a domestic disturbance — he is really in no mood to go to juvie — pushing her towards the kitchen. She spins around like a bull seeing red; nostrils flaring as she stomps back and forth, the arrow sticking clean through her shoulder really sells the metaphor, "You a doctor? No? So we agree you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

This stops Marla in her tracks, if only for a moment, as recognition dawns across her scowling face, "Y'know what, fuck you, Mr. White and I ain't no Mr. Orange, I ain't no fuckin' rat, if anything, I'm Mr. Pink 'cept I fuckin' tip. Now, the fuck ya gonna do about this god damn arrow in my fuckin' shoulder huh?"

The girls has a point, she has a vulgar vocabulary that makes Mr. Pink sound more like Mr. Rogers. Between the mouth and her penchant for violence, Tarantino would happily shake her hand and ask for pointers if ever given the change to meet.

Clint rubs a hand across the back of his neck, looking around the kitchen for some answers. He's not used to having to remove arrows from _living_ people, or at least people he sort of, kind of knows, so he's at a bit of a loss really. His usual method of stab and grab won't go over too well on someone he has to look in the eye afterwards, especially someone who'll for sure fight back if he fucks this up.

"You, uh, you got some bolt cutters or something?"

She levels him with a supremely unimpressed look, before nodding,"Yeah, c'mon." She crosses the kitchen, stopping only to grab a bottle of whiskey from the freezer, before leading Clint into her bedroom, "They're in my closet."

She disappears into the bathroom as Clint slides the closet door open and he has to stand back in awe at the sight of a colossal, industrial — and he assumes, knowing what he knows about Marla, burglar resistant — safe that hides behind closed door. Pushing clothes aside, he finds her a collection of crow bars and bolt cutters in different types and sizes for various purposes of questionable legality, two sledge hammers and even a _god_ _damn_ _blow_ _torch._

Grabbing the compact sheer cut bolt cutters that _he hopes_ with leave minimal splintering in the aluminum arrow shaft, he finds Marla sitting on the edge of the tub in a sports bra, her blouse torn and pooling around her waist.

"Gimmie a hand with this Barton," she demands, holding out the bottle of whiskey for him to open before snatching it back, taking a long, disgusting guzzle, hissing loudly as she turns the bottle on the wound itself.

She looks up at him, a sharp smile baring too many teeth, "What's wrong sweetheart, ain't ever seen a topless chick before? You got bigger tits than I do."

Clint rolls his eyes, looking down at his archery sculpted pecs with a shrug, "Don't flatter yourself, you're not the type I aim for."

Marla's eyebrows disappear under her fringe in surprise, nodding, "Good to know, now c'mon, cut this sucker and yank it out before I lose my nerve."

Her nerve, at this point, is already spread incredibly thin. Her knee bobs up and down between skillful swigs of whiskey, her eyes looking anywhere but the arrow plunged through her shoulder, and Clint can't blame her, he's a bit wrecked himself.

Taking a deep breath and stilling his hands, he makes eye contact with her and waits for the go ahead. He lines the bolt cutter up with the shaft, closest to her back, to reduce any potential wobble, and says, "Okay, on the count of three. 1... 2..."

"Wait!" Marla shouts, her trembling hand shooting out to grip Clint calf, "Just— on my bedside table, there's a box, bring it to me."

Clint nods, exhaling deeply to try to get a grip on himself. When he returns Marla makes a quick grab for the box, balancing it on her lap and flipping it open with one hand. Grinning victoriously after a few moments of rummaging, she shoves a hand-rolled cigarette between her chapped lips and pegs Clint with a lighter.

"Light me up, kid."

Clint opens the zippo with a flick of his wrist, holding the flame out as Marla carefully leans in, inhaling deeply. Smoke billows out of her nose as she hangs her head back with a smile, the raw tension seemingly melting out of her body.

"Really? You're gonna smoke pot at a time like this?"

"Fuck you Barton. This is a smoke 'em if you got 'em situation if there ever was one."

"I don't smoke," Clint replies flatly, "I don't want it to fuck with my aim. It's why you haven't bled out, I shot around all the important parts."

Her eyes open on the third inhale, a bit dazed around the edges as she nods, bracing her free hand on the edge of the tub, sighing, "Aight, let's get this shit show over with."

It breaks Clint heart only a little bit to have the shaft of one of his arrows snap due to his own hand, but the steady stream of profanity that spills from Marla's lips lets him know that he definitely didn't get the short end of the stick in this situation. Tossing aside half of the arrow, he sits between her knees, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"I'm not gonna lie, this part is really gonna hurt."

She lets out a bitter huff of laughter, drawing deeply from the joint before affording him the smallest of smiles, "I figured." She wraps her small hand around his shoulder, fisting his tee shirt tightly.

"On the count of three?"

Marla shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut, "No, no. Don't lemme know, just let 'er ri— SON OF A FUCKING _WHORE_."

And when she kicks him, a black booted foot connecting squarely with his chest, Clint joins in — with language that would've made his late, dear sweet mother blush — moaning from his new found position on the floor.

"Hey, it ain't even bleeding all that bad," Marla marvels, her voice still shaking, "Oh, buck up Barton, you're actin' like you're the one who got shot."

"You tried to steal my wallet!"

"And you tried to steal my money!"

He opens his eyes to find Marla staring down at him thoughtfully, a towel pressed to the exit wound as she slides onto her knees, stumbling slightly as she plops on the floor next to where Clint lay, tossing him another towel to press against her back.

The two sit quietly in the silence of her bathroom as the adrenaline of the long, fucked up night fades away, before Clint says, "I really hate to say it, but I'm gonna need that money Mars."

She sighs deeply, reaching over with her uninjured arm, small fingers sweeping across his brow, "I'm afraid I can't do that, kid. S'matter of principle. I stood up to thugs with guns for that payout. Word gets out that I lost it to Robin Hood, there's goes any respect I earned so far."

"I know, but—" he groans, pouting, "I'm under contract. If I don't show up with that money, my goose is cooked. They know where I live."

"Rookie mistake there kid, you never let'em know where you rest at."

"Yeah, well. Too late for that now."

"Oh, Barton, didn't anyone tell you? New York don't give a fuck about you. She's cruel and vindictive, she'll eat you alive and spit you back out just because she can," she pats his head in such a condescending way — and Clint resents the implication that he's a child, especially since he's certain she is only a few months younger than him, and he's pushing 17 — before continuing, "How's about this, let's make a deal. You're under contract, I get that. Take the winnings back to your employer, you take your cut and then you cut ties and work exclusively for me."

Clint opens his eyes, frowning, "What do you mean?"

"I obviously need hired security if Im'ma gonna keep hittin' the tables, and you, my country bumpkin goober, need all the help you can get. Consider this my investment in you and your daring life of crime. You're gonna need to go ghost, get out of that apartment ASAP."

Clint breaks out into a broad grin, "Aww, Mars, you lonely?"

She shrugs with her good shoulder, "My Uncle Nicky left for a weekend in Vegas three years ago, haven't seen him since. Somethin' tells me he didn't meet a nice young lady to settle down with, na' mean?"

Clint nods, it's been almost a year since he's seen Barney with his own two eyes. The only proof he has that his older brother is still among the land of the living are the rotating phone numbers that show up on his beeper and the short coded phone calls that follow.

"So what'ya say? You wanna be the queer Clyde to my lesbo Bonnie?" She asks, an eyebrow raised in question, "We can set this city on fire if the Bronx don't end up in ashes by then all on its own."

Clint sits up, leaning over to press a quick kiss to her cheek, "Yeah. Yeah, you got it Mars. Now come on, lemme get that cleaned and bandaged up. You won't need stitches, but it's probably going to leave a bitchin' scar."

Marla's smile is blinding, "I can live with that."

•••

Natasha concedes and agrees to take her suspicion down a few notches to her standard operating wariness, so he takes that as a win.

"Like it or not, I love that pint-sized, foul mouthed mushroom cloud," Clint says, slowly rolling to his side to prop himself up on his good elbow, "But not like you, never like you. Not like—"

He catches himself, but it's too late. Fucking pain meds, turning him into a sloppy seagull and worsening his already iffy brain to mouth filter.

Natasha stares down at him, her eyes comically wide as the smile only he is privileged enough to see slowly spreads across her face.

"Clinton Francis Barton."

"Nat, no."

"Really?"

"C'mon, Nat."

"You need to tell him."

"Nat! C'mon— oof hey!" He flails as she jabs him in the ribs with her finger, "Be careful! I'm an old and broken man!"

"Clint, listen to me. You need to tell him."

Clint sputters, reaching up to grab her wrists before she can jab him again because _ow_ , "Shit Nat, I didn't even mean to say anything! I've only just figured this out last night," he pauses, locking eyes with her, "Why, he say something to you?"

She quickly shakes her head in the negative, red curls spilling into her eyes, but her smile only grows.

"Natasha, I'm serious. Don't fuck with me, you know that you are obligated to tell me under article 4, subsection 2a of the Best Friends Forever Proclimation. You pinkie promised, no stronger bonds are formed between platonic hetero-lifemates than that."

She rolls her eyes, "He didn't _say_ anything, but—" she stills, twisting towards the door just as Bucky returns with Tony in tow, "We'll finish this later," she whispers.

"So how my favorite bird themed superhero doing?" Tony asks as he rounds the couch, skidding to a stop as Clint comes into view, "Damn, Barton. You look like shit."

Clint just shoots him a toothy grin, reaching out for a fist bump, "Good looks on helping with the jail break man."

Tony flashes him a winning smile, "Don't mention it. These two did all the planning, I just supplied the tools."

Clint struggles to sit up, gratefully accepting Natasha's help as Bucky drops a greasy bag of breakfast sandwiches in his lap, "Cap mad at you for breaking the rules?"

"Psh, please. It's not like I was breaking the laws of physics. Besides, he's the one who got shot and used his rank to skip medical. Least I could do," he says with a wave of his hand, sitting on the armrest of the couch, "Anyway, while I have the Three Amigos present and accounted for, I do have a favor to ask one of you, should any of you accept."

"Knock it off with the round about," Bucky grumbles around his sausage, egg and cheese, "Just ask."

"Straight to the point, right. So, I have this charity event coming up next month in the Hamptons, a bunch of stuffy East Enders rubbing elbows, pretending to care how the other half lives. It's all very boring but Pepper is forcing me to go."

"Why not bring Stevie?" Bucky asks.

"Because he's already tapped out."

"Not it!" Bucky yells, nearly knocking over his coffee to bring a finger to his nose, Natasha following quickly in kind.

Clint blinks, looking back and forth between Bucky and Natasha before his face falls, "Aww, come on. Not fair!" He turns to Tony, who is smugly grinning down on him, "I wasn't ready! Call a do over."

Tony shrugs, "No can do Legolas, playground rules are fair game in this Tower."

Clint grumbles, glaring daggers at Bucky and Natasha who don't even have the common courtesy to hide their cheeky expressions of victory, "Will there at least be food?"

" _So_ much food," Tony insists, "The finest finger foods New York has to offer, my friend. And an open bar."

"Fine. I'll go to your stupid rich people party."

"Fantastic!" Tony says, but he's already making his way to the door, "I'll have Jarvis be in touch to set up an appointment with my tailor."

"A tailor? For what?"

"For your stupid rich people costume," Tony cackles over his shoulder, slamming the door as he leaves.

"Oh, cheer up Clint," Natasha says with a straight face, "Just think of all the silverware you can pocket to add to your collection."

Okay, she has a point, almost makes having to wear a tuxedo worth it.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in real life, getting shot in the shoulder will probably kill you. Don't do this. It really speaks to Clint's skill, even at the tender young age of 16, that he manages to avoid all the necessary for life parts.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mars' got some gossip, Steve brings shame to himself and the entirety of the US Army, and Bucky *really* like the way Clint looks in a tux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boys.
> 
> We're coming up on the home stretch, maybe about 3 or 4 chapters left, but I have another winterhawk fic in the works, which'll be posted when the last chapter goes live.
> 
> I love you all, my darlings.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen island, slowly making his way thru half a box of Fruity Pebbles — another plus one for the 21st century, what a step up from bland and tasteless corn flakes — when Natasha slides into view across from him, taking a seat with a cup of tea in her hands.

He nods in greeting, but she remains silent, the smallest twist of her lips the only form of acknowledgement she grants him. He raises an eyebrow as he chews, but she merely dips her chin in response as her smirk deepens.

Bucky frowns, swallowing, and sits back on the stool, crossing his arms across his chest, "What?"

"Nothing," she replies sweetly from behind her cup, looking far too much like the cat who caught the canary for his liking.

She clearly knows something that he doesn't, and he knows for certain that she has no intention of telling him, it's not her style. She must be toying with him if she's being this intentionally vague, and if that's her plan, he'll just cut to the chase.

"Alright," Bucky begins, "What's your angle, Doll?"

And in pure Natasha fashion, she simply shrugs, and places her mug on the counter. She leans forward on her elbows to cradle her chin in the hands, expression unblinking, and Bucky feels as if she's staring straight into the depths his soul, if such a thing even exists, when she asks, "Where's Clint?"

"Down at the gym with Steve," Bucky replies slowly, "They shouldn't be much longer."

With a pleased hum, Natasha's smirk slides into a sly smile, "Thank you, James. Good talk."

She twists off her seat, abandoning her tea as she saunters away, leaving Bucky dumbfounded over his cereal.

Something important just happened, he's sure of it.

She must have known where Clint was, she was present at dinner last night when him and Steve agreed upon a time — and to Clint's credit, agreeing with Steve for a 5 am session spoke volumes as to how antsy Clint has been to get back into the swing of things after the misadventures of his last mission — or she simply could have asked Jarvis. Instead, she came to Bucky.

God damn spies.

He digs back into his breakfast — because soggy cereal is gross cereal — mulling over exactly what just happened, when Steve and Clint amble in. Clint, only a little worse for wear, makes a bee-line to the coffee maker, sighing with sweet heavenly relief that Bucky had the foresight to make a fresh pot.

Cradling it in his arms, he barely puts up a fight as Steve commandeers the pot, pouring himself a mug before returning it to Clint's clutches.

Clint glares at Steve as he takes a seat in an empty stool next to Bucky, burying his face in the crook of his neck, "Your best friend is a sadist."

Bucky looks to Steve expectantly and is met with a shrug, "I guess a 5 am training session was too optimistic before he was properly caffeinated."

"I can't feel my legs, Pumpkin," Clint groans, "You're a monster, Cap."

"I seem to remember you were the one who asked me for help to get back into the swing of things after your downtime," Steve replies from the fridge, "You told me not to go easy on you."

Clint can only glare over the brim of the pot as he sips, Bucky knows there's nothing he can say in response, he was there for that conversation.

In all fairness, Bucky did warn him.

"Oh hey," Bucky begins, turning to Clint, "Did you catch Nat on her way out? I think she was looking for you, but I don't know. She asked where you were, stated at me and then left."

"Huh?" Clint blinks owlishly, turning to face Bucky with a frown, "No, I didn't see her, I'll—"

He's cut off by his phone vibrating where he dropped it on the table, an incoming FaceTime from Marla and Bucky's heart stops.

Fumbling, Clint flicks his thumb and accepts the call, Marla's grinning face popping up on the screen, her curls whipping around her face, "Yo Barton, you got your ears in?" She asks, one hand signing short hand.

Despite his previous complaints of being near death, Clint can't stop the sleepy smile from spreading across his face, "Yeah, you're loud and clear Mars, what's got you up so early?"

Marla pushes her sunglasses up over her head, squinting against the glare of the morning sun, "Who says I've been to sleep?" She laughs, her eyes a bit bloodshot, a bit manic, before continuing, "Meet me at Battery Park, slip 6. I'm taking the Water Taxi in."

Bucky leans in until he can be seen in the mirrored screen in the corner before asking, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, we copacetic Sarge. It's a beautiful day, figured Lucky would wanna see his daddy."

Clint perks up immediately as she turns the phone to bring the dogs into view; Ante sitting like a statue at her knee, her muzzle turned up to the wind with Lucky sprawled out and tucked safely between her feet.

"Have you been a good boy for Auntie Mars?" He asks, affection overflowing in his voice as Lucky's head tilts, confused as to where Clint's voice is coming from, "Of course you have, because you're such a good good boy, right Lucky? That's right, you're the _best_ dog."

As Marla's face comes back into view, she flips her sunglasses back down to the bridge of her nose, "Take a shower Barton, you look like six sorts of shit. Hit me when you get above ground."

•••

Brought back to life by the prospect of seeing his dog, Clint hops in the shower and yanks on a cleanish pair of jeans and a barely wrinkled purple hoodie just in time to catch the 5 train downtown to the Bowling Green station.

Clint's hand spent the entire 15 minute ride in Bucky's lap, flesh fingers wrapped around his own. These easy displays of affection coupled with the recent revelation that he's balls deep in love with Bucky fucking Barnes leaves his insides twisting in the best of ways.

To be honest, he feels like a kid again. This giddy, childlike excitement working wonders to stomp out the realistic expectations of his adult experiences when it comes to the _feelings_ that simmer just beneath the surface. The problem is he doesn't actually know how Bucky feels, regardless of Natasha's insistence that Bucky clearly feels the same. He finds himself cataloging every soft smile, every gentle kiss, trying to fish out a pattern, match it to a profile.

He's applying spy craft to his love life rather than just manning the fuck up and actually talking to the man about it. He should call Kate, gain some teenagerly insight into all of this, she would know what to do.

Kids today are so much better at everything.

Bucky gets off the phone with Marla and relays the message to meet her by the carousel, his thumb running gently back and forth over Clint's and there goes the flip flop of his heart again that send goosebumps shooting up his arms.

Clint only let's go of Bucky's hand when he's greeted by familiar, incessant barking. Lucky, on the other end of a retractable 20 foot lead, and Ante are chasing each other in circles, the German Shepherd leaping and weaving around Lucky's leash and leaving the one eyed rascal in her dust.

Ante may be the peak of her breed, but he loves his dopey pizza loving dog so damn much, his face hurts from smiling so hard.

Marla gives them a small wave from her seat on a bench — dressed casually in a white tee shirt and navy, pin striped pants — as she stands to meet them half way. Ante notices them first, tail wagging as she whines impatiently, looking back and forth between Marla and Clint as she waits for permission.

Marla's sharp whistle drops down a few octaves and Ante takes off, barreling straight to where Clint sat on the ground with his arms wide open, Lucky right on her heels dragging Marla behind him.

"How we doin' boys?" Marla asks, kissing Bucky's cheek as Clint lays laughing on the ground in all of his glory in the middle of a puppy pile up.

"Hey Mars," Clint calls in between singing praises for the dogs trampling all over him.

Marla crouches down next to Clint, taking Lucky's lead and attaching it to the belt loop of his jeans with a carabiner, "I'm stealing your boyfriend for a minute, gonna grab some coffee, you want any?"

Clint shoots her a flat look, "Of course I want some coffee Mars, what kinda question is that?"

She smirks in response and ruffles his hair, "Get outta the sidewalk, be back in five."

Clint watches as Marla and Bucky head down the path, Ante scrambling to catch up and takes her place at Marla's side. Months ago, Bucky never would have so easily left his comfort zone, and now he's happy to be dragged away by his oldest friend.

He sits up, looking at Lucky who happily pants next to him, his tail thumping behind him, "I love him, Luck," he whispers into his dogs neck.

Lucky barks, as if to say he knows.

•••

"One of my little birdies returned to the nest with news early this morning," Marla says, handing Bucky her phone with a video queued up, "I don't speak a fuckin' word of Russian, but our names came up, have a listen."

Bucky looks down at Marla warily, but she just continues to look straight ahead, her hand absentmindedly scratching Antes head as they walk, so he presses play.

The video was taken in secret, the frame only showing the ceiling, but there is plenty going on. More than one conversation is taking place, but his enhanced hearing is able to pick it all apart: words about dinner, a woman laughing, a mans deep voice murmuring about what _exactly_ he'd like to do to her, and asking how much.

Marla is looking at him now and shrugs, "I know some _very_ influential call girls. Keep listening, in the background."

Bucky brings the speaker closer to his ear, trying to filter out the ambient noise of boisterous laughter, ice clinking in glasses, business dealings and territory disputes all in English when he hears it below the chatter.

Words in Russian, native speakers with deep tones, are speaking to each other in a way that attempts to keep their conversation between themselves. Bucky increases the volume, keeping back as Marla steps up to a cart to order their drinks, and listens intently.

"I swear, it was him," The first man said, his voice wavering, "The Deathless. He's _real_."

Loud laughter comes in response, "You are too superticious, Deathless is nothing but folklore, silly stories we tell our children to make them behave."

"But—"

"Enough," the second man says, a finality to his voice that puts Bucky on edge, "You were beaten by Larsen, a _woman_ , your judgement after that point is questionable. But before that, you had eyes on Barton?"

"Yes, and another man."

"Disregard him, it's Barton who is important, has he been back?"

"Scouts say no."

There's a pause that follows, and the response is spoken so softly that Bucky barely hears it, "Boss wants her to pay, and Barton will slip up eventually. Do what you need to do to get it done, no excuses."

The video ends.

He immediately turns, his eyes locking onto where Clint and Lucky lay in the grass a ways back, his metal hand balled tightly into a fist in the pocket of his hoodie.

"That bad, huh?" Marla asks, suddenly at his side as she holds three paper cups between two hands.

"You should stay outta Brooklyn too Mars, until we get a handle on his."

She sighs deeply, handing over one of the cups, "Yeah, I fuckin' figured," she says as they begin to walk back, "I heard my name, knew it was bad news bears. Emerson still has her apartment up by Columbia, she's there now, I gotta call her, tell her to stay put. Guess I'm gonna bunker down at my place in TriBeCa for the time being. Maybe call'a brother in law or four to keep an eye on my place."

Bucky nods, agreeing it's the best course of action. The Deathless. _бессмертный_. The name pulls at the back of his mind but brings up nothing of importance. They still don't have a name, just a voice and confirmation of their suspicions. It's not much, its more than they had already, but it does nothing to ease the unrest in his chest.

Clint looks up as they approach, and his smile is blinding, worming it's way through Bucky's chest and making his heart rate hitch in the best of ways.

Nothing will happen to him, Bucky reassures himself.

He's got this.

•••

It was fuck-all-o'clock when Bucky is thrown awake by a blaring alarm and Steve's voice blaring thru Jarvis' speakers, telling him to be at the range in ten minutes time — the _or else_ is left unsaid, but immediately understood. Clint flails as Bucky shakes him awake, his fingers flying in kind, which leaves the two treasonously plotting a mutiny against none other than Captain America.

A colorful string of multi-lingual swearing fills the room, Clint and Bucky scrambling out of bed and frantically searching for clothes in the near darkness of their bedroom.

Clint reaches the closet first, throwing open the door and dropping to his knees, blindly groping around the floor for sweatpants or basketball shorts — fuck, even a pair of Tasha's black booty yoga shorts will be fine and dandy — fucking anything they can pull over their bare legs so they can start making moves and get _going_ already.

Bucky skids to a stop next to him and shoves a shirt over Clint's head, not even affording him the time to put it on fully before hauling him to his feet and pushing, what he can only assume, a bundle of clothes into his arms.

Clint blinks, swaying on his feet and he barely has time to register the fact that he's being herded out the bedroom, stumbling through a sleep soaked fog as his brain struggles to keep up.

They are both intimately aware that punctuality is one of Steve's buttons that you just didn't push, and as Jarvis' countdown rounded off to eight minutes, they abandoned all hope of coffee as they rushed out of Clint's apartment, slamming the door behind them.

Natasha casually steps out of her apartment a bit further up the hall, followed by Sam — and it's way too early to be considering the implications behind  _that_ — fully dressed with not a hair out of place. She sends them a small salute before taking off in a sprint towards the elevators with Sam stumbling after her, impatiently bouncing on the balls of her feet as the glowing numbers above the sliding doors slowly descend floor to floor.

It's still early enough that the dim, low level lighting hasn't cycled over to the inset daytime fixtures. Its far too dark to see what clothes they managed to grab during their frantic scramble out of the apartment, but all things considered, the fact they both managed to pull on pants before making their way out the door was a monumental achievement.

It is at this moment when Clint realizes he's forgotten his hearing aids.

"My ears!" He shouts as he turns back to the door.

Bucky grabs his shoulders, spinning him around so they're face to face, and Clint doesn't need to be able to read lips to know Bucky is frantically shouting, "There's no time!"

Bucky shoves their sneakers into Clint's hands before sweeping him off his feet and effortlessly tossing him over his shoulder, taking off down the hall just as the elevator doors ping open.

The slow sweep of the closing elevator door takes with it the panic fueled energy of the morning, and when Bucky drops Clint to his feet, he can finally take inventory of the situation.

He wearing boxers and a shirt, which is always a plus, and Bucky is smirking at Sam who is boldly staring him back down, arms crossed over his chest with an eyebrow raised, daring him to say something. He looks over at Natasha, who looks incredibly amused by the whole situation, and he scowls at her ability to be so put together so quickly. She rolls her eyes and hands him a spare pair of his aids, and god damn so he love this woman.

She knows him _so_ incredibly well.

Swaying on his feet, he turns his ears on, wincing as the world comes back to life.

"Good morning boys," Natasha says as Clint slides down the wall, kicking his legs out to blindly pull his pants on, "Sleep well?"

Clint reaches deep within himself and manages to find the will to wrench a single eye open and glares in her general direction, "Nat, I love you, but fuck off."

He gives her the finger after wrestling into a too large sweatshirt, it's black and clearly Bucky's, and she just ruffles his hair like a child.

Bucky, with all of his militant efficiency, is already dressed and much more awake than Clint will ever be this early in the morning.

He's going to kill Steve, mark his words.

By the time they reach the range, Clint has managed to yank his shoes on and has some semblance of being put together. Bucky holds a hand out and pulls him to his feet, giving him a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before leading him out, their hands still entwined.

He doesn't have time to register the butterflies in his stomachs, however, because he finds both Steve and Tony waiting, with wide grins on their faces.

"Good morning," Steve says, happily taking a sip from his travel mug, "Sleep well?"

Clint grumbles something that he's sure is laced in profanity and does his best to quell the need to smack that smirk from Caps perfect face.

It's too early for this shit.

"What's up Sniper Bros?" Tony asks, mockingly inhaling the beautiful smell of his absurdly expensive coffee, "You look tired. No time to grab some coffee hmm? See, I'm sure I would have had enough to go around but—" He hops down from where he sits on a table full of weapons, putting down his travel mug to pick up the two coffees that he had hidden behind his back and handing them off to Sam and Natasha, "someone got into my secret stash, so," he shrugs.

Clint groans, leaning into Bucky, "That's cold Stark."

Tony grins sardonically, leaning back on Steve as he comes to stand behind him, picking up a rifle on his way, "So can we drop this now?" Steve asks and Tony nods, "Thank god. Alright, let's get started then."

•••

"Shit Stevie," Bucky sighs, dragging a hand heavily across his face as he watches the dismal playback of Steve's previous run through the fight simulator, "What happened to you? Did spending all that time underwater break the part of brain that remembers how to shoulder a rifle? I've seen kids hold cap-guns with better technique than you."

Steve scowls, mumbling something under his breath about the shield and it's been a long time since '45, as he grabs a magazine off the table and reloads his rifle.

"Be easy on him," Natasha quips, her smirk small but loaded, "Cap prefers to punch his way through things."

"How'd you let him go into the field like this?" Bucky asks her, playfully bumping her shoulder, "Am I remembering things wrong? Did I let you run around Europe shouldering a rifle like it was gonna bite you? Shit man, I let you down Steve and I'm sorry. Does everyone know how bad Captain America looks with—"

"Alright," Steve snaps, and Bucky can help but grin at the flat look Steve sends his way, "I get it. I would'a done better if you let me carry the shield. Best offense is a good defense," he says with a formative nod, followed by a pleased little smile when Clint shoots him a thumbs up at the correct use of the expression.

Bucky remains unimpressed, "Yeah, but an outfielder can still hit a baseball Stevie. You been spendin too much time with Sam, the fly boy is rubbin off on you. You're a grunt, shape up soldier." He extends his hand out, palm up, and curls his fingers, "Now gimmie the gun before you hurt yourself, Rogers."

"Hey, Honey Bunny," Bucky says, switching out the assault rifle for his designated marksmen fitted SIG SG 550 rifle — Steve can bitch all he wants about the Swiss and their damn war time neutrality, but they know their guns — "Reset the course, but surprise me."

Clint beams, dropping the bag of chips he procured out of somewhere and dusting the crumbs off of his lap before his fingers fly across various screens, "Challenge accepted! I got you, Pumpkin. Give 'em hell."

Bucky grins over his shoulder as he steps out into the simulator, the gun heavy and familiar in his hand. Pivoting, he squares his feet, bringing the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, takes a steadying breath and waits.

It's moments like these when time slows down; his pulse drops as his breaths even out, pupils adjusting to the dim light as a calmness settles over him.

He relishes in this moment of clarity as he sets his finger on the trigger and waits on his mark, grinning to himself in anticipation.

He knows Clint will set him up with a challenge; the man loves watching Bucky show off.

The steady red starts to pulse, indicating the seconds before he can take off from the gate when suddenly a trio of voices come yelling through the speakers — NO SLEEP TILL — followed by the thrum of heavy bass guitars and Clint's voice, laughing, "For Brooklyn!"

Bucky rolls his eyes, but can't stop the smile on his face when the light turns green, and he rushes into the fog and strobe lights of the simulator.

Not his first choice, but Clint's got a point.

It's a lot of fun to kick ass to a soundtrack.

•••

"C'mon Honey Bunny," Bucky shouts from the couch, "Let me see!"

It's a week before the event, and Clint's custom tailored tuxedo arrived today with Pepper's very explicit instructions to try it on immediately to ensure there would be time for alterations, if necessary. Clint had dragged himself into their bedroom 20 minutes ago, but now is refusing to come out.

"No!" Clint shouts back from the other side of the door, "You're gonna make fun of me."

"I ain't gonna make fun of you," Bucky answers, shaking his head as goes to the bedroom door, "C'mon, I bet you look great."

Clint must be just opposite of him on the other side of the door because he hears him sigh, grumbling, "Its not that."

"Then what? Don't make me pick the lock, you know I'll do it."

Bucky grins victoriously as he hears the door unlock, and then his brain breaks and he forgets how to breath when Clint finally opens the door.

Bucky is almost positive he's never been turned on so quickly in his entire life.

Clint looks _phenomenal_. The single breasted, midnight blue dinner jacket with notched lapels sat sharply on his shoulders, drawing Bucky's gaze downward until it was met with the royal purple cummerbund peaking out above the row of buttons. Clint is barefoot, because of course Clint would be barefoot but he's also talking and Bucky realizes he hasn't heard a word he said.

"I'm sorry, what?" Bucky asks, involuntarily swallowing as his eyes snap back to his boyfriends face.

Clint is sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, Bucky's eyes momentarily drawn to the arrow cufflinks at his wrist — fuck Barnes, _focus_ — before Clint mumbles, "I don't know how to tie a bow tie, I need you to do it for me."

Bucky's eyes must be blown wide, because when they make eye contact, the bastard is smirking at him, "See something you like?"

Bucky takes a deep, slow, steadying breath as he reaches up, taking the silk fabric between his metal fingers and, ever so slowly, pulls the tie from around Clint's neck and lets it drop to their feet.

Cupping Clint's grinning face between his hands, he brings their foreheads together and releases a shaky breath he wasn't aware he was holding, "Fuck, Clint. You see what you do to me?" he groans.

Clint laughs deep in his throat and Bucky catches it with his lips before it can escape, rolling his bottom lip gently between his teeth, turning Clint's laugh into a moan.

Bucky's hands move on their own accord, trailing down the labels of Clint's jacket, deftly fumbling with the stupid, slippery silk covered buttons. One, two, three out of the way, Bucky smiles victoriously against Clint's lips, untying the cummerbund as he slips out of the jacket, tossing it blindly to the side where it lands perfectly on the back of a chair.

"So it's the tux that does it for you, huh?" Clint says with a simper, and Bucky can't string the right combination of words together to tell him how unbelievably wrong he is.

Because it's how Clint looks at him in the morning, sleep soaked fingers slowly asking him if and how he slept. It's the excitement that thrums through Clint's entire body when he introduces him to a new movie, and how at he spends more time watching Bucky than watching the film itself. It's the pout on his lips when Bucky told him he doesn't care for the Beastie Boys, but the affection in his eyes when Clint walked in and found him and Natasha gliding around the kitchen to Frank Sinatra.

It's the scars that litter his body, earmarks of his life story, the callouses on his fingers, the haunted look deep in his eyes that only comes out of hiding when he's thrown from sleep at 3 o clock in the morning with laugher ringing in his ears.

It's the stains and holes and Lucky's fur on his clothes, the way he tastes like coffee and sunshine and happiness.

It's the way Clint can _empathize_ with him, and make him feel like he isn't so alone after all.

They both stand there in the doorway, trembling with want and need and the million things Bucky wants to say to say but can't find the words for because it's new and terrifying and fucking perfect. Clint is perfect in his imperfections and it's overwhelming. Bucky takes a step forward, unsteady hands slowly unbuttoning Clint's dress shirt and Bucky doesn't dare take his eyes from him.

"It's not the tux," he says, shocked he found his voice even when blinded by Clint's mere existence and what it all means in this exact moment, "It's _you_ , sweetheart. I wasn't livin' proper 'til you."

Clint blinks, and a disbelieving smile slips across his face as his calloused fingers sweep Bucky's hair from out of his face, coming to rest on his jaw, "You really mean that, don't you?"

Bucky nods, and he can feel the heat well up behind his eyes but can't find any reason to care because this is _Clint_ and Bucky is walking him backwards into the safe haven of _their_ bedroom when the tears finally spill down to meet his near broken smile.

"I had no idea how important you were gonna be to me," Bucky all but whispers, "No idea I could even _feel_ this way because I couldn't remember _how_ ," he shakes his head, bringing their foreheads together, "I would go to fucking _war_ for you, scorch the entire fucking planet if it meant you were safe because this? What we got? It's worth fightin' for and it's worth all the pain and loss and blood I had'a spill to get here."

Clint's shaking, Bucky realizes, his eyes clenched shut and white knuckles fisted in his black hoodie, but he's _smiling_ and nodding to himself. He opens his eyes, sharp blue eyes desperately searching his face when he whispers, "Are you saying what I think you're saying? Because I really kinda hope you are."

Bucky swallows, nodding, "You're my best friend," Bucky says, his voice steadily finding purchase, "There isn't any one person on this planet, then or now, that I need like I need you. I _need_ you, Clint. I need you like you need coffee," he laughs, and Clint laughs and the way he's smiling at Bucky tells him everything he needs to know, "You look at me, like how you're lookin' at me right now, and I see the rest of my life in your smile."

Clint's crying, and Bucky is crying and it's ridiculous because they're standing here, grinning like idiots just smiling at each other. Bucky pushes Clint backwards as Clint grabs hold of his hoodie, the two of them tumbling back into their bed. And when Clint kisses him fiercely, through their laugher and tears with such reckless abandon, Bucky knows the words aren't necessary because they both _know_.

"I love you Pumpkin," Clint laughs against his lips.

Bucky sighs happily, burying his face in Clint's neck, "And I love you, Honey Bunny," he replies.

"Everybody be cool! This is a robbery!" Clint quotes, and they both dissolve into laughter because with anyone else, referencing Pulp Fiction in a time like this would ruin the moment.

But for them, it's perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flails*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marla takes care of a visitor in the night and Clint get fancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man.
> 
> For starters, we broke 10k hit and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. For real real, so much love to everyone who reads, comments, kudos, bookmarks and subscribes. You guys rock my world. 
> 
> That being said, please don't hate me.

  
Marla is awakened by Ante's cold, wet nose on her neck and the dogs low, guttural growl in her ear.

Sitting straight up in bed, sleep all but forgotten, she finds her dog pressed firmly to her side, withers standing on end and hackles raised as she stares at the closed bedroom door. This isn't good, this is very not good, Ante is a well trained machine, she _never_ alerts danger unless they're already well on their way to fucked.

For the first time in damn near a month, she is beyond grateful that Emerson and Lucky aren't in bed next to her. She shakes the thought from her head, forcing herself to focus.

It's time to go to work.

Marla is quick to act, rolling over and grabbing her Glock 43 from the bedside table drawer before scrambling out of bed, Ante on her heel. Pressed up against her bedroom door, she can just make out what put Ante on alert; the unmistakable sound of someone creeping through her fucking house at 2 in the god damn morning.

"Good girl, Ante," Marla murmurs, reaching down to scratch behind her ear.

She snaps her fingers three times, drawing Antes attention up. Extending her arm parallel to the ground, hand open and palm down, she moves her arm across her body, giving the dog the _attack_ command.

Taking a deep breath, she steadies herself and throws open the bedroom door. Ante takes off like a bullet, a blur of black and tan, and Marla follows, slowly, making her way down the hallway as the dog barrels around the corner and disappears down the stairs.

Her brother-in-laws, Denny and Donny come flying out of the respective guest rooms with all the grace that two identical, burly Irish bastards can muster while being suddenly thrown from sleep. They barely acknowledge her before they take off after the dog, thundering down the steps with guns in hand.

A shout, a suppressed gunshot and a high pitched whine makes Marla abandon any sort of stealth or self preservation, flying down the steps two at a time and skidding across the hall on socked feet. Through the open door she sees Ante on the ground, one of the twins — she can't make out if it's Denny or Donny in the dark — kneeling on the ground next to her. He meets her eye and nods, conveying that Ante is down but not out, so she brings her attention to the intruder who is struggling on the ground, gasping for breath against the other twins crucifix choke hold, the gun abandoned on the floor.

She knows that face, this son of a bitch is the same one that tailed Barton and Bucky, and she let him go.

Fuck, Emerson is gonna kill her.

Threat under control, she rushes to Ante's side as the dog lets out a soft whine. Her brother-in-law — she can see now it's Donny — looks up at her in recourse, "He got a good kick on her before Denny could get him to the ground, fuck Marla I'm so sorry, we should'a—"

"Don't worry about it," she says, sinking to the ground and pulling Antes head her into her lap, tracing the black mask around the dogs eyes with her thumbs, "She would'a jumped into the fray anyway. She was doing what she's suppose'ta, right my girl? You did a good job, baby girl. Good dog."

As Ante stays down, basking in the positive attention at a job well done, Marla looks up at Denny when he calls her name. He's making his way to his feet, the man passed out on the ground, "What you want us to do with this guy?"

"Bag and gag him," Marla says, "Put him downstairs. I'll deal with him after I've had some coffee, maybe smoke a pack of cigarettes and, I don't know, put some pants on."

•••

"I feel like we got off on the wrong foot," Marla begins, dragging a chair across the room and taking a seat in front of her captive, "You gotta understand, I'm from Brooklyn, and we tend to go hard." She lights her cigarette, purposefully blowing smoke into his face, "I mean, I don't blame you, Barton can be a real pain in the ass and I'm sure whatever he did to rile you boys up was somethin' to write home about. Now, I hate to disappoint," she says, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, "but you woke up early for nothin' cause Barton ain't here."

The corners of the mans mouth twitch upwards slightly, so quickly that it would've been invisible to most, but Marla aint most. This guy is keeping his cards real close to his chest, but Marla don't need to look at her hand to know when to raise on a bluff.

So, this ain't about Barton then.

Interesting.

Marla smiles and leans back in her chair, "Now, lemme ask ya somethin', what's the goin' rate these days on my head? Because I could'a _sworn_ I'd be worth more alive than dead."

There it is — the tightening of his brow, wrinkling of the nose, the slight raise of his upper lip — his scorn tells her all she needs to know.

"Y'know, I'm already upset with you for bustin' up my bar but what's a few broken tables and cracked skulls between friends, amirite? That's practically a handshake for people like us," She pauses to remove her jacket and roll up her sleeves, exposing the flat tactical knife holstered on her forearm. She takes it into her hand, sighing deeply, before plunging it into his thigh, "but you kicked my dog, and I gotta tell ya buddy, that's where you fucked up."

She smiles as he screams through the rag tied around his head like a bit, waiting as rage, distain and defiance flash across his face. She can tell right away that this idiot is prepared to make her job difficult. She stands, reaching over to pull the rag over the back of his head and out of his mouth, an eyebrow raised in question as he scowls at her.

"Now, who do'ya work for?"

"Poshel na khuy," he replies through a clenched jaw.

She laughs, shaking her head, "See, I know you speak English, you understood me well enough last time, but hey man, if that's the game you wanna play, it's your call."

He spits at her feet, struggling against his bonds and Marla can only roll her eyes. These mob foot soldiers and their misplaced loyalty, they'll never learn. He's clearly not a made man, they'd never send a made man to tie up loose ends like this, and unless you're made, you're expendable.

She smiles at him, patting his cheek before crossing the room to the stereo in the corner. Desperate times call for desperate measures, it's time to pull out the big guns.

She grabs the iPad and pulls up Spotify, sending a malevolent grin over her shoulder as she hits play and Safety Dance by Men at Work begins to blast over the speakers. She hits the repeat one icon then reaches over and flips a switch, activating the strobe lights built into the ceiling.

Happy with the near deafening, completely obnoxious volume she has chosen, she turns on her heel and makes her across the room, roughly smacking the side of her captives head as she goes. Turning off the main lights, she slides the door shut, leaving the man to wallow in her makeshift 80s synthpop torture chamber and think long and hard about what he's done.

Four hours seems about right.

It's only 2:30 in the morning, she wonders if Barton is still up.

•••

Clint is in the middle of a cuddle puddle with Bucky and Nat, watching Marty McFly taking credit for rock and roll away from Chuck Berry when 'Luck Be a Lady' by Sinatra begins to play from his phone.

Marla.

Fumbling for his phone, he swipes to answer the FaceTime and is met by Marla grinning face with a muffled, horrible 80's synthpop song playing in the background. She holds up a single finger, and she's on the move, the music sounding further and further away as she goes. When she comes back into the frame, she looks uncharacteristically disheveled, a light sheen on her brow, "Hello, my darling dears."

"Do I want to know why you're using the Biodome Method and what that poor bastard did to deserve it?" Clint asks warily. The Biodome Method was a surprisingly effective way to make a grown man descend into madness with minimal effort. "You interpreted Back to the Future," Clint says flatly, "this better be good."

Marla simply rolls her eyes in response, "This ain't no social call. Listen, that douchelord who busted up my bar came back," she explains nonchalantly, "I got the fucker tied up in my basement. Fool me once, shame on me and all that shit, I ain't lettin' him go this time."

"I told you to stay outta Brooklyn," Bucky sighs, turning to Clint, "Why don't none of you listen to me?"

Marla and Clint shrug simultaneously, "Yeah well, I don't listen, consider it a character flaw. You wanna fight about it?" She asks with a cheeky grin.

"Shit, Mars," Clint mumbles, his hand over this mouth. Bucky tenses next to him, jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as loud as the plates in his fist, "You're alright tho, yeah? What about Em?"

She rolls her eyes and waves him off, "Em and Lucky are still in the Upper West Side, she's got her brother Johnny stayin' with her, they're fine, I'm fine. You remember Donny yeah? Say hi Donny." She stops her mile a minute rambling to turn the phone towards a burley blonde man with a weather face and a crooked smile, who gives the smallest of waves, "Him and Denny been watchin' the place for me, but I'm guessing this asshole's been waiting for me, broke in a little while ago, wasn't anticipating Ante. I'ma let him simmer over that fuckin' song until he remembers that I _know_ he speaks fuckin' English. So far it's just been Russian, and I don't gotta speak Russian to know he ain't singing my praises, y'know what I mean?"

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," Clint sighs, "They're looking for me."

Marla frowns, "Someone smack that idiot upside the head for me." Which Natasha does — traitors, all of them — to Marla's absolute delight, before she continues, "This is the guy I let go, he was comin' for my head, so this ones all mine."

"I'm coming to help," Natasha says, "You don't need to do this on your own."

"Nah nah, don't worry about it," Marla insists, "I'ma gonna call an Odessa buddy a'mine in a little bit to help me out, and no offense but he ain't none too fond of Russians. Don't you worry ya pretty little head, Red. I got this. Just figured you might wanna be in the know."

Someone says something off camera, and Mars' face lights up, "Look, breakfast is here, I'm gonna run. But I'll keep yous updated. Love yous, be good."

She abruptly ends the call, and Natasha and Bucky share one of their loaded Looks over Clint's head. While he hates being left out of the conversation, he's not gonna lie and say he doesn't absolutely love the way his best friend and his boyfriend can convey information back and forth without a word. It's a handy skill to have in the field.

Right now, however, he feels like a little kid.

"I don't think you—," Bucky begins, shaking his head, correcting himself, "I would feel much better if you didn't go tomorrow."

Clint appreciates the concern — really, he does — and he almost caves in when Bucky takes his hand, bringing his knuckles to his lips. The Mob Situation doesn't prevent him from living his life, and he highly doubts Russian gangsters will be granted invitations to rub elbows with hoity-toity East End business blue bloods.

Besides, The Mob Situation is Brooklyn business and what happens in Brooklyn stays in Brooklyn.

"Yeah, see," Bucky sighs, metal fingers coming to rub his temples in a way that Clint finds incredibly endearing, "Pretty sure that's not how it works, Honey Bunny. At all."

Clint tries for a withering glare but comes up pathetically short, but a pout is better than nothing, he supposes, and doubles down with a lip quiver, "Tony promised me food. And an open bar. You can't stop me from going. Besides, they probably have security up the ass at gigs like this."

This draws out one of Bucky's slanted, lopsided smiles — the one that reminds Clint of the war time reels of him and Steve from before Bucky's life went to absolute shit — even if it doesn't fade the worry in his eyes, "I ain't ever gonna stop you from doing whatever it is you wanna do, you know that," Bucky says sincerely, his voice low as he turns his head to place a kiss on Clint's temple.

"I think you're being an idiot," Natasha says flatly, going straight for the jugular.

Clint leans back, narrowing his eyes, "I'm an Avenger, I've handled bigger baddies than this. And Mars is Mars, she's gonna be _fine_. I'm not worried, you shouldn't be worried."

"Mars is worried."

"What, you best friends with Mars now? Pretty sure you said I was your new best friend. I'm hurt, Pumpkin. Absolutely wounded. My heart can't handle the betrayal.

A shrug, a sharp smile, "We talk."

"Mars is a dirty, rotten scoundrel and lying liar that lies, you should know better. I'm disappointed in you."

Clint is aware that, with  his arms crossed over his chest and his bottom lip puckered out, he looks like a child, but he doesn't care. Granted, it's not going to help prove his case that he's an actual real life adult who can handle his actual real life adult problems on his own, but fuck it, he's committing to the petulance and he's not backing down now.

At this point in their relationship, Bucky knows him well enough to see _exactly_ what he's doing, but Clint is prepared to hunker down and drain every single ounce of sniper trained patience he's accumulated up over the years to win this battle of the wills.

Bucky sighs, dragging his hands over his face as he shifts on the couch to face Clint, "At least take one of _my_ guns. Like the Sig P220. Or even the Taurus PT111," he pauses, biting his lip apprehensively, "but you have to promise to take care of them. And dont lose them."

"Why not one of my guns?"

"Because you don't care take of them. Or you lose them. You know where every single one of your arrows are at any given time, but you can't keep track of a sidearm."

"That's not true."

"Clint," Natasha says gently, "You were using a pistol to level out your TV stand."

Clint raises his hands, "To be fair, that was a second hand Kimber Ultra Carry and thats all that gun was good for. You couldn't shoot three rounds without the damn thing jamming. Not even Tony could straighten that piece of shit barrel into place."

"More to my point," Bucky sighs, "My guns work, take mine."

"What about the FN P90 TR?" Clint asks hopefully.

"One of my pistols," Bucky corrects, "No submachine guns."

"But—"

"Where on your person do you plan on concealing a sub machine gun?" Bucky asks, "What about the Browning .22 LR?"

"Pfft, baby rounds. I'm a world class master assassin and you want me to use baby rounds. I'm insulted, you insult me with your words Pumpkin."

"I have subsonic rounds."

"Of course you do and of course I want to bring them now."

"And the extended magazine."

"Obviously, I'll take 12."

"And I want you to wear the garrote watch I got you for Christmas," Natasha says, "and those ridiculous knife shoes you _had_ to have." She kisses his cheek, before unfurling herself from the couch, "I'm going to bed. Please don't stay up all night."

"But Nat, it's so much easier to stay up than it is to wake up early."

"You're leaving at Noon," she says with a shake of her head, leaning down to kiss Bucky goodnight, "That's not early. Get some sleep."

Clint hums happily; argument won, new toys to play with and permission to wear his awesome James Bond knife shoes. He's not concerned about Mars, the woman has her golden fingers in everything, her business on lock down, she can handle her shit.

"Kill the lights, Jarvis," Bucky says once he hears their door shut, and in one fluid motion he has Clint pushed back onto the couch, arms held above his head as he slots his body firmly over Clint's.

Clint shivers, he loves these displays of strength and Bucky knows it. He lets out a shuddering breath and Bucky nuzzles his neck, Clint's legs coming up to wrap tightly around Bucky's waist without his express input.

"I love you, Honey Bunny," Bucky murmurs into Clint's ear, causing the archers body to arch against his, "I just want you to be safe, but I also trust you to take care of yourself. I trust your judgement."

Clint's eyes fly open, his fingers poking the junction between Bucky's shoulder and his arm, "Say that again."

Bucky leans back, his hair framing flashing eyes and a raking grin, "What, that I love—"

"No, no," Clint insists, "The last part, about trusting my judgement. Can you write that down? There got to be a notary on staff right now, I'm gonna get that notarized and then Cap can—"

He train of thought leaves the station without him, however, with Bucky's lips on his own and cool fingers wrapping themselves around his hip. It's gonna leave a bruise, he's sure of it.

He's actually rather fond of that idea.

•••

Denny returns with coffee and breakfast, the three of them tearing through bacon egg and cheese sandwiches while sitting on the stoop to avoid the repeated playings of Safety Dance coming through the floor boards, Ante happily curled up behind Marla's back.

"You sure you wanna be gettin' involved in alla this?" Denny asks from behind his take out cup of coffee, "Y'know me and Donny don't mind gettin' our hands dirty and it ain't like you to work for free."

Marla smiles up at the younger man, "I know, yous are good boys." And they were good boys. Marla remembers them when the twins were 90 lbs of knees and elbows, two scrawny scraps trying to keep up with the older brothers they tower over now, "and this ain't about money. Em could'a been here, she could'a gotten hurt and then I would'a hadda burn Brighton to the fucking ground. I gave you my word to keep your sister safe from my bullshit, and my word is worth gold in this market."

Denny grins, wrapping his massive arm around Marla's shoulders, "It's cute you think Emerson needs protectin' because outta the lot of us, she's the one who makes shit happen."

"Damnin' The Man is different than dancin' with the mob and you know this."

Donny just grins, and in his thick native accent replies, "Tiocfaidh ár lá!"

"Our day will come," Marla parrots in English, taking another sip of coffee through smiling lips.

She adores this little family she's created, the much larger one she's been dragged into. Uncle Nicky taught her how to hustle, ever single dollar and casino chip she's earned can be traced back to a lesson he gave her while she hovered over his elbow around a card table. Barton showed her that maybe being on her own wasn't as fun as she thought but Emerson's family, the Daly's — Em, Johnny, Susie, Mikey, Donald, Dennis, Patrick, Megan, Haley, Brady, Erin and Molly — they dragged her into their fold, showing her what _family_ meant for the first time in her life.

She hopes Barton feels this same fuzzy feeling of unconditional belonging with Natasha and Bucky, that boy deserves it more than she does because at the end of the day, as plain as the bruises on her knuckles and the fire in her eyes, she's a bad guy.

"It's better this way," she begins, "They already got my name, I'm gonna make sure they don't forget it."

Marla is many things, but a fool she is not. She needs a return address on this guy so her message won't get lost in the mail — Marla Larsen ain't nothin' to fuck with — so she can get back to doing what she does best and that's making money.

"I'm gonna need you boys to do me a favor and hold down the fort inna little bit," she says, checking the time on her phone, "I gotta make a stop at a bakery, talk to a buddy'a mine, see if I can get him on board with helping me out with this Russian fuck."

"You sure you wanna be bringing more people into this?" Donny asks.

Marla just gives him a sharp smile and replies, "Maksym is Ukrainian, he'd be offended if he found out I got a Russian tied up and I didn't invite him over for a play date."

•••

Steve and Bucky came to see them off, and Clint absolutely does not blush as Bucky kisses him goodbye, mouthing _I_ _love_ _you_ against his lips. The dopey grin on his face is clearly due to the fact that Bucky wearing an official licensed Captain America hoodie — there had been a lot of eye rolling and long suffering sighs on Steve's part, so mission accomplished — and not the fact that he signs _I'll_ _miss_ _you_ as Clint walks backwards to the car.

Tony is leering at him with that cocky, all knowing smirk but he thankfully says nothing as he comes to a stop in front of a matte, cream colored convertible.

"It's a 1959 Ferrari 250 GT LWB California Spider," Tony brags as Clint runs his fingers across the passenger side front wing of the stunning machine that's probably worth more than his soul.

When he tells Tony as much, the man just laughs, not bothering to unlock the door as he hops into the convertibles drivers seat, "This was a 3.9 million dollar 39th birthday present to myself. Pepper yelled at me for weeks, worth it."

Clint slides into the passenger seat, marveling that the car seemed to have no technological upgrades — not even a radio! — which is very un-Tony Stark like, to which Tony shoots him a flat look over his sunglasses.

"Oh, ye of little faith," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulls out two small, handheld speakers which he attaches to the metal frame of the door, tossing one to Clint who does the same.

"Jarvis, play me the Cruising Playlist 4," Tony says as he turns over the ignition, grinning like a child on Christmas morning as the car roars to life and purrs in idle.

Clint's face lights up as the swingy, big band music starts and Tony begins to pull out of the spot, "Hey! I know this song!" He says, "Goodfellas! Right before Billy Batts get whacked!"

"You don't know this is Dean Martin, the King of Cool, but you know the exact scene it's from in Goodfellas?" Tony asks, shaking his head in amusement, sending Steve a sloppy salute and blowing him a kiss, "Say goodbye to your super-solider so he doesn't get jealous."

Clint grins, hanging over the side of the car to shout, "Hey Pumpkin! Go home and get ya fuckin' shine box!"

"Yeah, go fuck yourself Honey Bunny!" Bucky yells back but he's smiling and Clint returns it when he signs _I_ _love_ _you_ in front of his chest.

"What was that about?" Clint hears Steve asks, his voice seeped in concern, "What's a shine box?"

"Well, Stevie," Bucky begins, slinging an arm over his broad shoulder, "For as long as Henry Hill could remember, he always wanted to be a gangster."

"Who's Henry Hill?" Steve asks.

"Don't matter," Bucky replies, "To him, that was better than being the President of the United States."

"A gangster being better than the President?" Steve asks, clearly unimpressed.

Bucky and Clint make eye contact one last time as Tony begins to head towards the opening garage door, and Bucky sends a wink his way, "To be a gangster was to own the world."

Steve rolls his eyes, shoving Bucky playfully before turning to head back into the tower, "Okay, now you're just yankin' my chain."

"Fuck, I love that man," Clint sighs happily, easing back into the seat to buckle his seat belt, a rush of warmth blooming thru his body at his out loud confession and Tony gapes at him, "Yeah, that's right. I said it."

"You two are disgusting," Tony says after he picks his jaw up off the floor, easing into traffic as they head towards the Midtown Tunnel.

•••

They sit in the standard midday traffic as they crawl through Brooklyn and Queens into Long Island, but Clint doesn't even mind because Tony is a _blast_. Clint can't figure out why they haven't spent that much time together — well, okay, he's sure it has to do with all of his time being consumed by one Bucky Barnes — but Clint will happily be his wingman any day, so long as they leave the homoerotic subtext between Maverick and Ice Man out of it.

After a rather theatrical rendition of Iron Maiden's Fear of the Dark, Tony shoots him a honest to god, genuine smile and asks, "Where have you been all this time Barton? I feel like they've been keeping you from me. We could have been taking classic rock road trips all this time and I had no idea. This is Barnes fault, isn't it? I'm blaming Barnes. No offense, Winter Soldiered or not, your boyfriend is terrifying."

"Nah," Clint says, grabbing Tony's phone to queue up the next song, "He's a big ol softie."

"No. Steve is a softie," Tony corrects, "Steve is good and pure. He radiates puppies and freedom. And, also, not for nothing, your fan club is terrifying. I've noticed, and I mean no offense, that you have this tendency to collect scary Russians to look out for your well being which, you know, is super effective."

Tony is not wrong.

Clint won't bring up all the times Nat has had to grab dog treats out of his hand that he had mistaken for cookies in his pre-coffee fog. He absolutely will not mention the time Bucky grabbed him before he stepped off the curb directly into the path of a bike courier because he was too busy snorting over doge memes to notice. Such reflexes, much sexy.

And he will never, ever, even under threat of death recount the time when Mars had shown up unannounced to the piece of shit apartment he holed himself up in — "Unfuckingbelievable, you making me shlep my ass all the way to god damn bumfuck, have some self respect Barton, who the fuck lives in Queens? This is practically Long Island." — clutching by the collar the very guy he had been avoiding.

Corey was a tall, handsome nightmare of one night stand that ended up being the kind of Coney Island Groupie who would've made Annie [Wilkes](https://youtu.be/cWVxFKn7qx4) proud. Yet there he stood, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, apologizing profusely through a split lip, promising that he'd leave him alone as Mars stood next to him grinning like a maniac.

"Yeah, they're a handy bunch to have around," Clint contends as the highway opens up to four lanes, grinning victoriously as he finds the perfect song, "So how fast does this baby go?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Tony says, sending a quick glance to the city behind him as he moves into the nearly empty high occupancy vehicle lane, "Hold onto your butt."

Clint barely has time to reply _what_ before Tony let's out a cackling bark of laughter, opening up the clutch and slamming on the gas, Clint thrown back into his seat by the sudden burst of speed. Clint let's out a loud whoop as they hurtle down the open HOV lane, the steady line of cars a blur next to them.

He meets Tony's childlike grin with one of his own, and cranks up the volume to AC/DC's Thunderstuck, providing the air guitar to compliment Tony's steering wheel drumming as they both begin chanting thunder thunder together.

Oh yeah, he and Tony are going to be spending a lot more time together after this trip of theirs, for sure.

•••

After a pit stop at Tony's East End estate to kill some time with Chinese take out and a few levels of the NES classic Super Contra, they finally drag their asses into gear for a quick shower and shave.

Tony does his best to not laugh directly in Clint's face when he asks for help with his bow tie, but Clint could have done without the condescending smirk and the pat on the cheek.

Feeling whole uncomfortable and out of place in his tailored tuxedo, he takes a pouty selfie and sends it to Bucky, who immediately responds with ten heart emojis.

"I hate going to these things," Tony sighs as they head to the private event, "It's just a bunch of rich assholes patting each other on the back for their charitable tax deductions, pretending they actually give a shit."

"So why're we going?"

Tony shrugs, "Because Pepper makes me, and you don't say no to Pep. Trust me, I hate going to these circle jerks, but the board likes it when I make an attempt to play nice."

"Makes sense," Clint says, "So hey, I feel like I should warn you, but I plan on stealing a full set of flatware. Maybe a fancy centerpiece for Nat if I can get away with it."

Tony looks over at him over the brim of his red sunglasses and grin, "Excellent idea, I'll help. My slight of hand is shit, but if you need a distraction, I'm your guy."

They're discussing hand signals and diversion techniques when Tony pulls up to a gate with a manned guard, and Clint let's out a low whistle.

"Greetings Mr. Stark," the guard says with a smile, the very image of professional courtesy.

"And plus one," Tony replies, waving at Clint, "Clint Barton, fellow Avenger."

Clint waves at the guard, sending him a cheeky smile.

"May we valet your car, sir?"

"No need," Tony says, the car already rolling towards the slowly opening gate, "I'm sure your guys are top notch, but I got it."

"Very well, Sir. Enjoy your time."

Tony sends a peace sign over his shoulder, then turns to Clint, "Welcome to Billionaires Lane."

As they make their way along the winding driveway, the house finally comes into view and Clint realizes for the first time how out of his depth he is because this isn't a house, it's a compound. He can hear the waves crashing from the private beach the house sits in front of, complete with tennis and basketball courts and an Olympic sized swimming pool.

The property is opulent and obscene, and he's sure that the landscaping alone costs more than he'll ever make in his entire lifetime.

After they park, they walk up marbled steps to the tall, gold adorned front doors, and Tony doesn't seem phased in the slightest as the doors sweep open and he's sucked into a world Clint could have never even dreamed of.

He follows Tony, who is clearly in his element, into the double-height hall, his PR smile and showman voice in full effect as he meets their hostess, a beautiful statuesque brunette with an equally fake smile.

"Mrs Hoffman," Tony says, kissing both of her cheeks, "You look lovely as always."

"So glad you could join us, Mr. Stark," she says, "Please, make yourselves at home. Cocktails are being served in the library," she says, sweeping her arm to a door to the left, "And if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask any of the help, they will be pleased to assist you."

Clint had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the phrase _the_ _help_ — because what is this, Downton Abbey? — and he quick to follow Tony into the lions den, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing caterer with a grateful smile.

It's gonna be a long night.

•••

Clint has learned a few things this far.

One, playing this off like an undercover mission while humming the James Bond theme song in his head makes everything exponentially more fun. Shmoozing and dancing with the best of them, it's like he belongs here. Tony was impressed, hell, he's impressed and he doesn't know why he doubted himself because he's amazing. The Amazing Hawkeye, its right there in his name. Amazing. They don't just give that title away, he's earned it.

Two, free alcohol is the best alcohol. This top shelf shit was leaps and bounds better than anything he would ever buy for himself. He's a simple man with simple tastes: his liquor tends to come in a plastic jug and he's partial towards whatever beer is on sale. Tony keeps handing him this magical, fancy pink potion that tastes like what he imagines heaven tastes like, and he ain't gonna turn down heaven, he's not that stupid.

Three, Natasha will be pleased to learn that he has not one, but two, silver platters tucked into the back of his pants, just for her. Between him and Tony, they have a running total of three — count 'em, one, two, THREE — complete sets of flatware, a pocket full of napkin holders and he even managed to get a candle stick up into the knife holster on his calf with Tony's help.

Three, Tony is a traitor and has been filming him the entire night, which he learns from the phone call he's currently on, which has just been Bucky laughing and gasping for air for the past two minutes.

"You know," Clint says, as he learned against the deck rail in the backyard, "This isn't that funny."

"Oh, _Honey_ _Bunny_ ," Bucky gasps, "It absolutely is. You're _adorable_."

"Not adorable," Clint whines, which, when he thinks about it, isn't helping his case, "James Bond isn't adorable, I'm suave. I swear I'm not that—" he hiccups, _because_ _of_ _course_ _he_ _does_ , "drunk."

This just sets off another round of uncontainable laughter on Bucky's part, and Clint scowls down at his phone.

"There he is!" Tony exclaims, a wicked grin on his face, plucking the phone from Clint's hand and bringing it up to his ear, "Barnes? Yeah hi, oh yes, he's very adorable. I'm letting you know now, I am commandeering your boyfriend for all future Rich People Events. He's great, I haven't had this much fun in ages, let Steve know he's off the hook for the foreseeable future. Yeah, we're gonna head out after some obligatory coffee. Tell Steve I'll call him when we get back to mine. Yup, okay yeah we'll see you in the morning."

Tony pockets Clint phone, clapping a hand to his shoulder and guiding him back to the party inside, "C'mon Hawkeye, easy does it. Let's get some coffee in you."

"Oh, yes rich people coffee," Clint sighs happily, letting Tony lead the way.

At this point in the night, everyone has lost their tuxedo jackets and high heels and the high class etiquette of earlier has all but been abandoned as the party devolves into a raucous affair.

Groups of women danced in circles, twirling one another in gales of giggles, boisterous laughter coming from tables where men congregated to smoke cigars and bet exorbitant amounts of money on pick up games of cards.

Mars could've made a killing tonight, Clint thinks to himself and for the first time that night, he wonders how her little problem is going.

Tony interrupts that train of thought as he deposits him into a chair, waving over a caterer, trading a $50 for two mugs and the whole carafe of coffee.

Clint smiles into his mug, sipping the smooth, heavenly delight of high class caffeine, when he says, "Man, you guys really know your coffee."

Tony hums in agreement, leaning back in his chair, "Like you have standards for coffee."

"Hey man, beggars can't be choosers."

When they finish off the carafe, Clint feels much more alert than before and catches the keys Tony tosses him, "I gotta make the goodbye rounds, I'll be right out. Bring the car around and for the love of god, don't hit anything," he warns, before leaning in to whisper, "And drop our haul in the trunk."

Clink winks conspiratorially, twirling the keys around his finger as he leaves, making sure to fist bump every caterer he passes along the way.

He swiftly and inconspicuously loads up Tony's trunk before hopping into the drivers seat, giggling to himself as the car roars to life. Taking a moment to link his phone to the speakers, he picks out the entirely inappropriate for this crowd song of War Pigs by Black Sabbath, and meets Tony at the door.

They switch seats and Tony gives him two very enthusiastic thumbs up for the choice in music, before he cranks the volume even louder and takes off down the driveway.

As they drive back to Tony's estate, Clint can't help but to feel guilty that he almost backed out of the whole thing. He wonders how many events like this Tony has gone to in his life from childhood to now, if he usually just powered through them with a fake smile and never ending flow of booze. Tony didn't have a single drop of alcohol the entire night, but the PR smile was quickly replaced with a genuine one as they danced and conspired, making fun of the glitz and the glamour of the entire thing.

All in all, it was a successful night. 10/10, would do again.

That's probably why the car in front of them chose this exact moment to slam on their breaks, sending Tony's masterpiece of a car smashing into its rear end.

"You okay?" Tony asks, apparently not even worried over the wreck of his car and Clint nods, stunned.

The driver and passenger of the other car are already heading their way to assess the damage, and Tony goes to meet them halfway. Clint grabs Tony's phone, alerting Jarvis to the situation and keeping him — always 'him,' Jarvis will never be an 'it' — on standby.

"You guys alri—"

Clint's head snaps up to find Tony crumbled on the ground, grabbing Bucky's Sig from the shoulder holster and scrambling with the seatbelt when he feels the cool, unmistakable barrel of a gun pressed to his temple.

"Fuck me," is all he manages to say, before the butt of a gun impacts behind his ear, and the world goes black.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man, Marla. Spider-Man lives in Queens.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Tony make the best of their kidnapping and Bucky doesn't handle the whole situation very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should preface this by saying that I'm an actual, real life adult. I pay my bills, I file my taxes on time. You know, big girl stuff. 
> 
> However. 
> 
> My main method of dealing with being sick or pain is to just ignore it until it goes away. Anytime I've been to a hospital, it's been against my will and I bitched and complained (and once fought tooth and nail against) all the way to the ER. 
> 
> PROTIP: if your kidneys hurt, you shouldn't ignore it. I spent my Christmas and New Years in the hospital, trying to charm the doctors into thinking that my severe kidney infection wasn't THAT bad, and that I was fine — I was very much NOT fine. 
> 
> But I'm okay now! Well, okay ish. I've been banished to bed which is almost worse than the hospital, but at least at home I've got my dog in bed with me and I can guilt my very non-geeky boyfriend into watching every single marvel movie with me. 
> 
> I've also rewritten this chapter like 50 times, so if anything in this chapter seems a bit wonky, well, blame it on that as well as bringing it to my attention so I can fix it. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, my loves. I hope this chapter makes up for that cliffhanger I left you with last time. <3

Tony is doing his god damned level headed best to stay calm, because above all else Clint is still breathing even if he looks beat to unholy hell, propped up against the wall next to him, their wrists cuffed to a chain looped around a pipe that snakes its way to the ceiling.

Still breathing, still alive. So they got that going for them. Okay. Good. Score a point for positive thinking.

Tony, comparatively, has nothing more than minor bumps and bruises, even if his arms are reaching never before seen levels of numbness and he hasn't felt this hungover in _ages_. But at least he's still wearing his clothes, they have Barton stripped down to his DIY Winter Soldier boxer briefs, and okay, Tony is certain there is a codependency joke in there somewhere, but now is not the time.

All things considered, it's one of Tony's more comfortable kidnappings.

Somewhere hidden under his headache from hell is how they got here, because he can't remember a damn anything after leaving Billionaires Lane.

"Oh, hey. You're up."

Tony snaps his head up to find Clint's head lolling to the side, his eyes fluttering open to meet Tony's, and despite of everything, shoots Tony a blood soaked, gap toothed grin.

"Is this because I lifted some fancy forks and knives? Because I'm not gonna lie, wasn't even worth it," Clint laughs between clenched teeth.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Clint's snapping his fingers, turning his head to face Tony the best he could, "Talk at me, they took my ears, I can't hear you."

"Who's they?"

Clint let's out a short burst of laughter, before immediately regretting it as pain flashes across his face.

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's the mob, but I can't officially back that theory up right now, so fuck if I know. The list of people I've pissed off seems to be pretty extensive, we'll be here all day if we start cross referencing with yours."

"Fuck man, are you okay? What did they do to you?"

"You got tagged with a tranq after the car accident," Clint answers, raising a hand a weak hand to Tony's neck. "They got the jump on me right after, I came to in the back of a van. They didn't appreciate my lip, separated us when we got underground. Pretty standard torture." Clint jerks his shoulder, shrugging the best he can in his condition, "I've had worse."

Sometimes Tony forgets that underneath the reckless and carefree exterior hides an elite, world class S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that can laugh about the subpar torture techniques of his captors.

"Where are we?" Tony asks, looking around for the first time.

They're in a bathroom of sorts, a large tiled room with ten shower heads lining the walls. Bolts on the floor indicate that there were stall walls once upon a time, but he figures that they've been removed for one reason or another. It's damn and stale and Tony has a feeling this place hasn't been used for its original purpose in years which doesn't help stamp out the feeling of foreboding Tony has felt since coming to.

"Not sure, reminds me of the showers in lock up."

Tony raises an impressed eyebrow, "Didn't know you've been to the pokey Barton."

It's Clint's turn to look surprised, as if Clint's adventures through the legal system were common knowledge, but he shrugs, "I broke rule number one a few times, rule number one being: don't get caught. I led a pretty lucrative life of crime before S.H.I.E.L.D."

"You? Pfft, please. You're too pretty for prison."

Clint chuckles, eyes lost as he reminisces, "You say that now, should've seen me when I was younger. I had that whole windswept, Midwest farm boy thing going on."

"So what, your lawyer get you off?" Tony asks, "Been there, done that."

At this, Clint lets out a small, self depreciating huff of laughter, "Ah, not quite? My lousy brother left me hanging, I did 90 days in county for disorderly conduct. After that, I was bailed out but never showed for court. Twice I never made it to the precinct," he shrugs, "lose handcuffs, slippery wrists. You know how it goes."

"Bad boy Barton, I'm impressed."

"Man, you don't know the half of it. I got away with so much shit, and then S.H.I.E.L.D. made my record disappear."

Tony nods, and they let the conversation fall between them.

Tony feels woefully naked stripped of his tech, missing the safety and the badass firepower of his suit. He trusts Jarvis to have sent an alert after the accident, but sitting here chained to Barton in a bunker bathroom is doing nothing to settle his nerves.

"Listen," Clint grunts, rolling his head to the side to face Tony fully, "In all likely hood, they're gonna come back for me, and when they do, you keep your fucking mouth shut, you got me?"

"Barton, come on man. I can't just—"

"You can," Clint replies forcefully, "You can and you will. For once in your fucking life just shut the fuck up Tony, and let someone else handle it," He closes his eyes, clenching through another round of muscle spasms before exhaling harshly, "I'm fine, I got this. This is just another day at the office for me, but you're squishy without your suit. My concussions get concussions, I can handle it, but I'm not thinking my way out of this one. I need you to be the brains of this operation if we're gonna get out of here. You're Tony Stark, you solve problems. So be Winston Wolfe and tell me that you're on this motherfucker."

"Okay," Tony nods deftly, pulling his shit together and sitting up straight, "Okay, what do you need me to do."

Clint takes a deep breath before quickly rambling off everything he knows. After the van ride, they we're herding onto a boat so he assumes they're on some sort of island. Two men — one tall and heavy set, the other slimmer and silent — in your standard henchmen garb, dropped him off here after his welcome party. They're underground, and that's all he knows for certain.

Tony doesn't need to know the rest.

"Tony, look at me." Tony inhales deeply before affording him a glance. He has his game face on, the same one Steve wears when he slips on the cowl and becomes Captain America.

Steve.

Steve will find them, Tony tells himself. He bets that Steve is already on his way and him and Barnes are going to save the day. Any minute now, Captain America and The Winter Soldier are going to blast through those doors and then they'll have his suit and everything would be okay. It's going to be okay it—

Inhale. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Clint is snapping his fingers, and Tony isn't sure how long he's been staring at the floor for.

"Listen man, shits fucked six ways to Sunday right now but I need you to focus, okay. When they come back, I need to you to notice everything. What they're wearing, what they say, what's going on in the hallway. Catalog their weapons, their tech, everything about them. I need you to be Tony Stark right now, not Iron Man. But a Tony Stark that knows when to keep his fucking mouth shut. Can you do that for me?"

And the gears spinning madly in Tony's head click into place, because he's right. He's Tony fucking Stark, he's forged a new element and graduated from MIT at 16, he's the man who invented AI and he's more than his fucking suit.

He's got this.

"Yeah, you got me. And hey, why are you naked?"

Clint laughs, actually fucking laughs, and replies, "Because they kept finding my weapons. They took my knife shoes man, I haven't even gotten to try 'em out yet."

•••

Jarvis let's Natasha into Clint and James' apartment, and she gives the AI a grateful nod. Clint insists that Jarvis' feelings are hurt when his help goes unacknowledged, and far be it from her to deny Jarvis the gratitude he so clearly deserves.

"I hope you're decent," she calls out with a smirk — she, James and Clint are far past caring about societal standards or expectations of modesty — as she makes her way into the kitchen.

"No you don't, Doll," James calls from the bedroom, "Stop kiddin' yourself."

Shaking her head, she slides on to a stool at the kitchen island to wait. She and James made plans to catch a late night showing of The Thin Man at this art house cinema in the Village with Steve and Sam. Clutching a towel around his waist, James walks out of the bedroom, frowning down at his phone, and she has a feeling there maybe a change of plans.

He glances up at her, briefly meeting her eye, answering the unasked question, "Marla. Something's wrong."

He tosses her his phone, and a single eyebrow shoots up at the sight of his notifications. Besides the 13 missed calls — supposedly left while he was in the shower — Marla left a barrage of profanity laden text messages, all the same variation of GOD FUCKING DAMN IT BARNES PICK UP YOUR FUCKING PHONE. 911 911. NOT A PRANK CALLER. EMERGENCY EMERGENCY. THIS IS NOT A FUCKING DRILL.

He joins her at the island to return the call, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he puts the call on speaker.

Marla answers on the first ring, and his heart all but stops when he hears her voice; raw, ragged and so uncharacteristically out of control, "About fucking time you fucking _asshole_ , do you have any fucking idea how long I've been trying to—"

"Woah, Mars, slow down. What's wrong?"

"For the love of fuck, just tell me that Barton's phone is dead and he's with you."

"I just spoke to him," Bucky begins warily, "He's with Stark in the Hamptons, what the fuck is going on, is everything—"

"You need to go fucking get him," Marla demands, "Right fucking now, go get one of your fancy fucking jets and you drag that blonde idiot back to Brooklyn so I can kill him myself for getting involved with the _vor v zakone_."

"Fuck," Natasha and Bucky hiss, and when they meet each other's eyes, they both know how truly fucked this entire situation has become.

Marla cuts out, but she can still be heard screaming in the background — screaming at someone or something, he's not even sure he's hearing words at this point — when Emerson gets on the line, her voice an eerie calm, "Chatter on the street says that Barton has something they've been looking for. I don't know what he has to get on their radar, but I don't think I need to stress how bad this is."

"Buck, you listen to me." It's Marla, and her voice has lost that wild and ragged edge. When she speaks, her voice level and deep, it sends a chill down Bucky's spine, "You take care'a Barton, I'm callin' in every favor I'm owed, I'ma gonna start a motherfuckin' gang war over—"

"Mars," Natasha starts, "Don't. Be smart about this. Call the cops, let them—"

"Yo, _fuck_ the police," Marla says incredulously at the mere suggestion of involving the authorities, "Are you fuckin' kidding me with this shit? Listen Red, we handle shit our _damn_ selves and no fuckin' offense, fuck you if you don't think I have just as much invested in this as yous do. I don't see Barton for four years, and then he shows up at my doorstep with the vor v zakone on his tail? This is _my_ fuckin' city, if these gangbangin' assholes think they can push their way in and take what they want they got another thing comin'. Okay, I just got two enthusiastic thumbs up from Odessa backing me up, we're going after these— Em, NO. No, Em stop—"

"I'm not going to stop her," Emerson says, taking the phone from her ranting wife, her words drawing out a victorious whoop from Marla before she continues to berate their captive, "I'm even going to help, I know a thing or two about retribution. You let us handle the rats, I'll make sure Marla stays off the radar, you just get Clint home."

"We're on it," Natasha replies curtly before she abruptly ends the call, "How do you know the vor v zakone?" Natasha asks, because while she had intimate dealings with the international crime syndicate with her time at the KBG, she didn't expect James to even know the name.

"I—" he begins, but trips up on the missing memory. The name, it lingers, he can almost hear it, but the connection to any solid sort of image or sound, mission or target, isn't there, "I don't remember."

And for the first time, ever since fate dropped him squarely in Steve's lap, Bucky panics.

Bucky's legs tremble as stumbles off the stool and collapses to his knees, towel all but forgotten on the floor as he forces his voice to work, but nothing comes.

He should know this. They have Clint and somewhere in his shredded memory are their names and faces. It claws at his brain, itches and burns and he desperately tries to grab onto anything that can help, anything that can give him answers.

He has flashes of faces, accents, the scent of blood and fire, his handlers voice in his ears. It's 1934 and Steve is sick, his body as cold as cyro and Bucky doesn't think he's going to make it through the winter. The smell of Dum Dum's cigar as mortar shells explode in the distance. Dancing with a pretty blonde on leave in London. His mothers supper and his sisters laugh. Shooting a child who wasn't supposed to be there because she saw his face. Tokyo, Cape Town, Libya, Turkmenistan, Kosovo, Poland, Russia. He thought Steve was smaller, it had to hurt. He thought—

"James."

Her voice sounds like an echo, and he chases it until he breaks the surface and finds himself eye to eye with Natasha. Every question Bucky knows she has doesn't show on her face, but comes through the comforting fingertips on his cheekbone, his temple, his jaw.

"Welcome back," she says. Bucky is grateful she doesn't need to ask questions to know what's going on in his fragmented mind, because he's not sure if he could handle forming an answer, so he just nods. He trusts her to take the lead. She seems to understand this, rising to kiss his forehead gently before releasing him, "Alright. You're okay. We have a mission: eliminate the threat and recover Clint and Tony." She closes her eyes, debating with herself if only for a moment, before saying firmly in Russian, "Do you comply, soldier."

He knows what she's doing, and fuck, if he didn't love the woman before, he worships at her alter now.

Rationally, he is aware of the rage and panic in his chest, but instead of being consumed in a blaze of white hot fury, he is settled by the calming, familiar sense safety he's always felt while in depths of danger.

He _has_ to be in this headspace; the cold, calculating, mission minded Winter Soldier state of being. He's certain that had anyone else — with the exception of Clint, but he knows his boyfriend would rather die than utter those words — had asked him to comply, he would have crushed a windpipe on reflex. This is a monumental moment of trust between the two former soviet assassins, and they both understand the magnitude behind such a thing.

He swore never again, but he happily bows his head and just like that, he slips.

That static stops, and all that's left is calm.

It doesn't scare him like he thought it would as every overflowing thought and manic feeling stows back into its proper box, and for the first time since he read Marla's texts, he can think.

Natasha fills his field of vision, on the floor between his knees, nudity or any concept of modesty be damned. She takes his face between her hands and forces Bucky to look her eye to eye.

"James," she begins, her trembling fingers betraying her calm and level voice, "He's with Tony, you spoke to them not even an hour ago, they're safe. We'll take the quinjet, go pick them up, and then we'll keep Clint handcuffed to one of us for the rest of his life. He's fine. Come on, James, say it."

A deep inhale, "He's fine," he complies, more for her benefit than his, and exhales deeply.

"That's right, _Kotenok_ , he's fine. So let's—"

And any progress Natasha made calming Bucky down goes out with the bath water when alarms start blaring overhead, his body going rigid as Jarvis' voice cuts in, "I have activated protocol AE-35."

"What does that mean Jarvis?" Natasha asks, her eyes never leaving Bucky's.

"I am unable to make contact with Sir or Agent Barton after an auto collision, Agent Romanoff. I am tracking their whereabouts now, and have informed Captain Rogers of the situation. He advises to suit up and be at the ready 10 minutes ago."

"Shit," Natasha hisses under his breath, before steeling her gaze back to Bucky's, "Alright, let's go bring our boy home."

•••

"Absolutely not man, fuck no, do you want to get us all killed?" Clint asks, appalled as he brushes off Tony's suggestion with a horrified grimace, "Because that's gonna get us all killed."

Tony rolls his eyes and pokes Clint lightly on the shoulder, "Are you being serious right now? I mean, I get it, the bow is your aesthetic, I'm not trying to take that away from you, but in a survival situation..."

Clint scoffs, "No way man, risk is way too high, even Bucky agrees with me. This calls for silence and stealth and all the things spies are good at. Face it Tony, I'm right."

"First off, there is a zero percent chance that _Barnes_ of all people is going along with that, and you know it," Tony replies smoothly, "Barnes is not only President and CEO of Team Guns, he is their biggest fan. When society collapses in on itself, you're gonna be happy he's armed and fully loaded."

Clint rolls his eyes at him like Tony's stupid or something, and replies, "Then you can have him, Steve'll agree with me. I don't want anyone on my zombie apocalypse survival squad who thinks that shooting a gun around zombies is a good idea. That's like ringing the dinner bell dude, I'm not trying to draw attention to my delicious self."

"You are aware that we live in the most technologically advanced building in, dare I say it, the entire world right?"

"Pssh," Clint waves him off with a weak flap of his wrist, "Zombies don't care about tech. They care about brains. They can probably smell your brain from a hundred miles away, so if anything, you're a liability."

"We have a Hulk."

"Yeah, because that's what we need. Zombie Hulk."

Tony winces, "Okay, point taken."

"Hey," Clint says, lightly slapping Tony's shoulder with the back of his bloody fingers, "You're collars all fucked up. Can't have you lookin' like a hobo when the cavalry arrives."

Clint shuffles, trying to awkwardly maneuver his arms, coming up with just enough room to turn Tony's collar right side out, "There we go," he mumbles, running his fingers along the crease and down to the points, "Looking sharp, Stark."

He sits back, rubbing his face in his hands, before trying once again to get comfortable.

Heavy boot falls break the silence, and the sound of sliding locks put Tony on high alert. Clint notices the tension and shoots Tony a look; the kind of look that Tony immediately interprets as stand down and shut the fuck up, before slapping a smirk on his face and turning to the door.

Two men enter and Clint broadens his smile, "Shucks fellas, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me. Just to let you know, I always put out on the third date, but dinner and a movie wouldn't hurt—"

Tony watches in stunned, silent horror as a booted kick connects with Clint's stomach, knocking the wind out of him but failing to wipe that stupid, god forsaken smirk off his face.

"Didn't know you were into the kinky shit," Clint laughs thru gritted teeth, "In that case, my safe word is _pumpkin_."

They bend down to release Clint, forcefully dragging him to his feet, and hitting him once more, for good measure.

Clint moans, head falling forward as they begin to drag him out of the room, and since he's clearly an idiot who can't keep his big mouth shut, he continues his lighthearted taunting, "You two know how to make a guy feel wanted, but I gotta tell you, my boyfriend is gonna be _pissed_ when he gets here."

"Yeah, we're banking on that."

The sound of a fist connecting to Clint's jaw echoes thru the room and deep down into Tony's bones as he watches Clint fall hopelessly limp.

They never say a word to Tony, the only attention the give to the billionaire is when one of the men kneel down to readjust Tony's cuffs, linking Clint's abandoned cuffs to his own, giving him a bit more slack and movement with his arms.

He keeps his mouth shut, like he promised, and watches as they drag Clint's lifeless body from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Now alone, sitting in the silence of the barren bathroom, he lets his eyes follow the pipe he's chained to from the wall to the ceiling, where it snakes around to another pipe attached to the shower heads. They clearly haven't been maintained, and with a wicked grin, he begins some quick calculations in his head to find out exactly how much leverage he will need to rip these pipes straight from the damn wall.

He's Winston Wolfe, he's on this motherfucker.

•••

Steve forgoes the pomp and grandeur of his Captain America regalia for one of Tony's own design.

It is based off of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s covert, black ops uniform; a high caliber Kevlar has been woven into the back and chest plate, both fire resistant and waterproof with industrial strength locking mechanisms to attach him to seamlessly to Tony's Iron Man suit, he spared no expense.

Steve knows that he is prepared to go to any length to bring Tony and Clint back home; things that would defile the moral legacy of Captain America, but quite frankly, he doesn't give a damn. This isn't business, it's personal; he's not going into battle as Captain America, Steve Rogers is on a mission to save his boyfriend, rules of engagement be damned.

He's overcome with a paralyzingly sense of deja vu; it's 1943 and Peggy's just told him all but 50 remain of the 107th. He's soaked to the bone, those ridiculous tights suffocating him as he waits with baited breath for Colonel Phillips to confirm or deny the condolence letter for just one name.

He didn't believe him, of course he didn't. The same way he steadfastly refuses to believe Tony and Clint were anything but fine when the alarm sounded and the recording replayed — Clint saying there's been an accident, but they're okay when suddenly he swears and the message cuts out — that Jarvis is tracking the signal, even if all attempts at establishing communication have failed.

He found Bucky 30 miles behind enemy lines, sprung countless men from cages in a highly fortified, heavily armed Hydra hold out with nothing but a wooden shield and a showgirls helmet. The odds were stacked against him then; one man defying direct orders to go head to head with an entire platoon equipped with advanced, other worldly weaponry, but now the odds are in his favor.

Tony is lost to the wind, like Bucky had been, and Steve is prepared to jump right back into the front lines to bring him back home.

Steve shakes the memory of a menacing blue glow and the smell of gunpowder, smoke and blood when he feels a heavy weight on his shoulder, his thousand yard stare pulling back to the present to focus on the hand gripping his shoulder.

"You with me, man?"

Steve blinks, taken aback — how long has he been out? How long has he been _when_ — and he slowly exhales the breath he's just now aware he's been holding.

"Yeah," Steve assures him, his voice steadier than he feels, "Yeah, I'm here, I'm with you."

Sam looks unconvinced, but he simply nods and returns to fiddling with Red Wing but stays close and it works to keep Steve focused on the here and now.

He brought Bucky back then, and now he's going to do the same for Tony and for Clint.

Bucky stalks silently into the armory with Natasha on his heel, both in uniform and wearing identical expressions of calm indifference that poorly hides the abject rage behind their eyes.

He looks like the man he squared off against on the catwalk of the helicarrier, more Winter Soldier than Bucky Barnes, and Steve isn't sure if he should be worried or relieved.

There was a certain deadness in his expression, but it didn't carry over to the tightness of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the white of his knuckles nor the sound of grinding metal.

Natasha is at his elbow, and she murmurs something into his ear — Russian, always Russian — he nods, stalking to his personal armory while she comes to stand at Steve's side.

"He's fine," Natasha says, drawing his attention downwards when she leans in, "It's still him, but this is his Mission Mode." She gives Bucky once last look, before shifting her weight to more directly speak to Steve, "We know who took them," she says grimly, "International crime syndicate, they shouldn't be too difficult to handle but—" She turns her head as if to look over her shoulder, but keeps her eyes resolutely on Steve's. He gets the message, loud and clear; something's up, and no one likes it.

Steve nods, "S.H.I.E.L.D. considers Buck retired and off roster, so we're on our own with this one."

Natasha tilts her head in acknowledgment as she walks to stand next to Bucky, and Steve furrows his brow when he meets Sam's eye.

Sam looks at Steve with an eyebrow raised in question when Natasha takes Bucky's face in her hands, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his forehead and Steve can only offer him a shrug. He doesn't pretend to begin to understand the weirdly involved and intimate relationship between the trio of master assassins.

This seems to relax Bucky — so slightly that he wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know the man so damn well — as he begins to raid the armory like he's done this a hundred times before, but with a sad sigh, Steve reckons he has.

Sam tests the waters, "You guys alright?"

Bucky glances over his shoulder and nods, a small wicked twist of his lips doing nothing to settle Steve's apprehension as Natasha taps his elbow and passes him a few extended magazines for the pistol at his hip.

Bucky turns his attention back to the wall firearms, metal fingers passing over his long range sniper rifle in favor of his designated marksman rifle — clearly, he has no intention playing sniper during this rescue mission — and Natasha gives him an approving nod.

Natasha murmurs something in Russian, which Bucky returns in kind, showing her his back so she can make quick work of storing her extra ammunition on his person. They step back from the armory, and Bucky follows her to Clint's locker, they take a quiver each and an assortment of arrows and when she hands Bucky Clint's compound bow, he accepts it with reverence.

"Sam," Steve says, swinging the shield over his shoulder to snap into its back holster, "Get the quinjet ready, I'll meet you there in ten."

He doesn't even wait for a response before turning on his heel and heading to the elevators, waiting for the door to close before asking, "Jarvis? To the workshop please."

"Of course, Captain Rogers."

•••

"Show me the way to go home, bum bum bum," Clint sings on the top of his lungs, balanced on his big toe as he swings circles from his manacled wrists, "I'm tired and I wanna go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago and it went straight to my head."

He came two roughly an hour ago, and he's been singing ever since. He wagers that he's got a few more rounds before the guard outside comes back in to let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he's not a fan of his singing voice and he was going to knock him around a bit for it.

Mob guys, so predictable.

"Wherever I may roam," he starts up again with vigor, "Whether it's land or sea or foam, you'll always find me singing this song..."

The door bangs open and in steps Russian Goon #6, the one with the page boy cap and the piss poor attitude. Clint calls him Newsie, and he thinks they've developed a real prisoner/guard rapport going on.

Plus, he's real fun to rile up.

"Show me the way to go home."

The guy didn't even aim for Clint's solar plexus — if he really wanted him to stop singing, knocking the wind out of him should've been the first step — instead hitting him right in the abs, just below his floating ribs. It hurts like hell, but he's had worse, so he bites down on the pain and blows him a little kiss.

"Aw, c'mon baby, you don't like the way I sing?"

"You talk too much."

Clint can't argue with that, and grins cheekily in response.

"Your friend," Newsie says nonchalantly, but he's telegraphing some real malice behind his smile, "The little woman, she is likely dead."

Clint tries not to laugh, he really truly does — these shmucks _really_ have no clue who they're dealing with — but it bubbles in his chest and a _giggle_ escapes his lips before he can stop himself, "Yeah, okay bro. Keep telling yourself that. That woman eats guys like you for breakfast, it's fun for her. She likes it."

He's never really had to worry about Marla.

What she lacks in any sort of technical, hand to hand combat training has been replaced with a phd in mind fuckery, a superfly TNT temper and a give 'em hell attitude.

He's been dragged into enough bar fights — though to her credit, she knows how to pick her battles — to know she fights dirty. Once, she relieved a poor bastard of potential fatherhood after she dropped kicked his family jewels when he tried to skip out on a bet, and that was all over 50 bucks and the next round.

She's also in the unique position of being a free agent money maker to the criminal underground. None of the Big Guys would be pleased with the news that they might lose their golden goose because a couple of out of town gangsters — native New Yorkers, mob related or not, take that shit seriously — puts these Russian putz' at a severe disadvantage.

Through his chains, he feels the rumble of a detonation, and going by the spooked but resolute expression schooled on Newsie's face, it wasn't an intentional explosion.

"I think that's my ride," Clint smirks, getting enough leverage to shake at the chains around his wrists, "Mind giving me a hand with these?"

Newsie scowls, points one very direct finger at Clint as if to tell him to stay put, and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

He doesn't need his ears to know there is a definite ruckus going on beyond the door, and he has his metaphorical fingers crossed it's a super soldier shaped ruckus that'll keep his kidnappers plenty busy for a bit. With no plans to stay put and wait for rescue, he shifts his wrists in the cuffs, wrapping his numbing fingers tightly around the chain attaching him to the ceiling.

He runs his tongue along his teeth and with little effort, he dislodges Tony's collar stays from where he stashed it for safe keeping. He almost feels bad for leaving Tony out of the jail break loop, but he knows that big beautiful brain of his would figure his way out.

The chains will hold, but his body is a different story. His shoulders are on fire, but this isn't the worst shape he's been in during an escape attempt. He thinks back to Budapest and— no, he shakes that memory from his head right quick. He doesn't need to think about that now.

What he needs are happy thoughts.

Any happy little thought: arrows, room temperature pepperoni pizza, extra bold full flavored Columbian roast coffee, the way Lucky's feet smell like Fritos, Bucky bitching about unrealistic gun battles in movies with Nat egging him on.

The simple fact that Bucky _loves_ him.

Okay, he's got this.

Hold his beer and prepare to be amazed, because for his next trick, Hawkeye is going to make himself disappear.

Psyching himself up with a count of three — and a silent thank you to the _cirque_ _du_ _soleil_  caliber stripper he met one incredibly wild weekend in Bangkok — Clint swings his knees up to his chest and follows the momentum up, pulling himself upside down and wrapping his leg securely around the chain.

Step one of his fantastic escape plan complete, he commences with step two by spitting the collar stays into his awaiting, if awkwardly positioned hands. Old school iron shackles are one thing, but they have him strung up with standard issue copcuffs. He wasn't lying when he told Tony he had slippery wrists — even if he left out the part where he kicked out the back window of the police cruiser and took off running like a bat out of hell — if anything, he's only gotten better at Houdini-ing his way out of sticky situations.

Because _hello._ Spy.

The blood pooling at his brain isn't helping his cognitive functions in any way shape or form, but he throws all of his concentration into jimmying the locks as he begins to slowly spin as his weight shifts.

There's another explosion, closer this time and as Clint watches the door to the cell slide across the floor, he takes his eyes off his cuffs just long enough to almost cry in relief.

Bucky stands where the door once was, but Clint's heart nearly breaks when they meet eye to eye and none of the usual life is there. Oh god, Clint thinks. He _broke_ him, he broke Bucky, because he doesn't need any of his higher brain functions to know that's not Pumpkin standing stoically amongst the smoke and utter carnage.

That's the Winter Soldier.

"Aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?"

Oh, smooth move Barton. This isn't the time to be making jokes, and if Clint wasn't hanging upside down like some post apocalyptic, steam punk stripper, he would've smacked the back of his head himself. Bucky's cold, lifeless eyes are on his lips, and after a beat, his thousand yard stare shifts back up to Clint's gaze and snap into focus.

The life seeps back to those gorgeous, soul capturing ice blue eyes and when his body relaxes, just ever so slightly, his whole demeanor changes and it's _Pumpkin_ who smirks back at him.

He holsters his gun to sign, "I'm here to rescue you," and Clint doesn't even care when his broad grin splits open his busted lip because it's _Pumpkin_ , and he's _here._

Bucky is here to take him home.

But first, Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are going to find whoever took him, and fuck their shit up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly new yet very active on Pinterest, if you'd like to give my awesomely named fandom boards a peek. 
> 
> I'm on mobile, so I can't post a direct link to my profile, but my username is bladesandarrows
> 
> Come and find me and flail over these idiots with me <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than most, but when I came to a point where I could logically end, I took the opportunity. I didn't want to make you guys wait any longer than you already have because you've all been so wonderful <3

Clint can only offer a cheeky upside down grin, inwardly sighing with relief when Bucky reaches up to take the weight off Clint's leg, snapping the chains just as effortlessly as he took Clint's full weight, guiding him safely back to right side up.

He barely on his feet before he is dragged into a fierce hug, Bucky pulling Clint's face to his neck and holding him almost uncomfortably close, but after the night he's had, Clint doesn't fight it. This is the first time Clint has seen Bucky in the uniform Tony had made him — "I was bored, humor me," Tony had said, shoving the uniform into Bucky's confused hands because, like he's said repeated _he's retired_ — and damn, even covered in blood he is gorgeous.

Clint doesn't know what that says about him as a person, but fuck it, its true.

Bucky takes a step back, taking his face in his hands and just _stares_ at him with those piecing, all seeing eyes that Clint fell in ass over end with love with and Bucky's face just crumbles in relief. Clint throws himself back into his arms, deeply inhaling the scent of gun oil and smoke, and he's never felt safer.

He isn't given time to bask in the warmth and beauty that is Bucky Barnes wrapped in Kevlar and leather and on the war path, however, when Natasha pushes her way in between them. Her eyes search his, seeing if he's alright without ever having to ask. Having found the answer, she draws her lips into a tight line and firmly pokes him in the rib before slipping a pair of comm-linked aids into his ears.

Natasha's voice is the first thing he hears — "We've got Hawkeye, rendezvous at extraction in five." — and the sounds of absolute chaos beyond the door.

"I really hope you guys found Tony before all that happened," is all Clint can ask before another blasts rocks off in the distance.

"Oh, that's me cupcake," Tony says through the comms, "Just doing a little remodeling in exchange for their world class hospitality."

"We found him running around, swinging a pipe," Bucky replied, all inflection of his voice gone which, okay, is weird, but it's been a weird past couple of hours so Clint won't look to deeply into it.

Natasha appears in front of him, unceremoniously pushing his bow and two quivers into his chest, "We would have brought a change of clothes, but..." she trails off with a shrug.

As Clint slings his main quiver over his back, he replies, "Yeah, well. Y'know," he seesaws his hand while he shrugs, nocking the arrow in his bow, "Everyone wants a piece of this hot bod."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but her smile is genuine, "James," Natasha says, which gives Bucky pause, "Clear the hall, we'll be right behind you."

Bucky nods, bringing his rifle back to his shoulder and silently slipping out of the door.

"Is he okay?" Clint signs, not wanting to be heard over the comms but desperately needing to know because Bucky is being a bit too Winter Soldiery for his liking.

Natasha nods, signing, "Better than before."

Which really isn't the answer Clint was hoping for, but given the situation, he guesses it's better than nothing. There is _clearly_ something going on here, but for now, he settles.

Bucky appears in the door way, signaling the all clear, and Natasha falls back behind Clint as they off down the hall, quickly and quietly, towards the billowing smoke and sounds of chaos.

Clint didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.

Him and Nat have worked a million and one ops together, they're almost telepathically linked. They can read each other's body language so perfectly, hand signals become unnecessary.

With Hydra, Bucky worked alone. With the Commandos, he bunkered down up high, the guardian angel on everyone's shoulder, the all seeing eye clearing the battlefield, keeping everyone safe.

One would think, throwing a solitary man in the middle of their two person tango would throw off their groove, but to Clint's surprise, Bucky seamlessly stays in step.

Watching Bucky work is nothing like any of the countless simulations Clint has watched him go through. He's not sure where these jackbooted thugs are coming from — they're certainly unlike any mob he's had the displeasure of dealing with — but Bucky is always two steps ahead of them, making molehills out of mountains.

One bullet per forehead, brutally efficiently, unnervingly calm and _unbelievably_ attractive.

Fuck, he's beautiful like this, completely in sync and in the zone. It isn't until now, with his back to the wall and his fingers gripped vice tight around his bow, does Clint realize this is Bucky's first time in the field. Bucky is _retired_. He's told Fury and even _Steve_ , his brother from another mother, to kindly _fuck off_ any time they even hinted at him joining back up to fight the good fight, yet here he is.

"Rendezvous one minute," he hears Nat murmur behind him as they round a corner, "Be ready."

"And waiting," is Caps reply, and thank fuck because the only thing Clint wants to do is drag Bucky into bed and sleep for a week.

Of course, this is when they come face to face with two men: the shorter of the two rockin' the mafia aesthetic that he's used to, the other one goose-stepping his way into the traditional black and red Hugo Boss Hydra uniform, and now suddenly things make much more sense in the worst way possible. They're flanked by five men in tac gear with weapons much larger than their own, standing between them and their escape route.

Bucky's entire posture changes, wound painfully tight, as he subtly shifts his weight to stand in front of Clint like a human shield. He wishes he could see Bucky's face, read his expression, anything, to see if he was ready to bolt or ready to tear the building down after coming face to face with the very same people who pulled his strings for decades.

"On your knees Soldier," The Hydra officer says, "You've come this far, you wouldn't want your beloved to get hurt due to your disobedience."

To Clint's absolute and utter surprise, Bucky obeys, dropping to his knees and mechanically placing his gun on the floor in front of him, head bowed and stock-still.

"And the rest of you," the shorter man says with a thick Russian accent, "Weapons on the ground."

Clint glares daggers at the two — Hydra McFuckface and Soviet Short and Stout — fully prepared to do the exact opposite of what they want, but the gentle press of Natasha's fingers on the small of his back stops him, and he ever so slowly places his bow on the ground, pushing it away with a bare foot.

Hydra McFuckface smiles, clearly pleased, before grasping his hands together in delight, "The Widow and The Soldier," he begins, "Walking straight into a trap. I must say, I am as pleased as I am disappointed. Clearly, your conditioning has faded with time, but enough with the pleasantries, you have our property, we would like it back."

"He doesn't belong to anyone," Clint snarls, eyes narrowed, "Not anymore."

The man smiles, showing far to many teeth, "He does. He belongs to you," he says, nodding to Clint as his stomach churns, anger rising in his chest at the mere thought, "And since I'm being so generous, I've decided to give him something Hydra has never offered him before. A choice. Come willingly or—"

"Woah, woah wait," Clint cuts him off with a raised hand, "That's what you wanted with me? I'm fucking bait?!"

Hydra McFuckface shrugs, far too cocky for Clint's liking, "Not originally."

"My men followed you," Soviet Short and Stout says, "It didn't have to be this way, but that woman killed my men," he sneers, "and I can't allow that to go unpunished. She killed for you, now you'll suffer heartbreak for her transgression."

Clint blinks, face blank, because this is all just a clusterfuck of nope that his brain has no patience to deal with right now. Between being used as bait against Bucky, the knowledge that Hydra is slumming it with this greasy sleaze ball of Mafia douche canoe and the simple fact he's standing here freezing in his god damn underwear, he's an unfathomable level of fucking done.

"Once again, we will have The Fist of Hydra and—"

"Oh, for fucks sake," Clint snaps impatiently, grabbing the gun hidden between Bucky's shoulder blades and firing off two bullets in quick succession, watching with a satisfied, half cocked smile as the Hydra goon drops to the ground with a wail, clutching his stomach, "Boom, bitch! Hail Hawkeye!"

Bucky takes advantage of the distraction and in one fluid motion, he's up on one knee, shouldering his rifle and aiming at the five Hydra foot soldiers who look decidedly less confident now that their commanding officer is on the ground, wailing like a baby. Clint can feel Natasha move behind him and the comforting hum of her Widow Bites as she stands at the ready, keeping an eye on their backs.

Clint points the gun at Soviet Short and Stout with a raised, unimpressed eyebrow, "What about you Buddy? You got some long winded monologue to get off your chest because I'm telling you right now, I ain't got time for that. You're standing in between me and a nap. Maybe a sandwich, I don't know. It's been a weird day."

His eyes widen as he shakes his head furiously, hands flying in the air in surrender. Clint considers shooting him too, just on principle alone but Natasha beats him to it, flicking two disk charges in his direction and smiling as the electricity drags him to the ground.

"If you five," Natasha says to the remaining foot soldiers, "move—"

"I'll execute every last mother fucking one of you," Clint finishes, inwardly patting himself on the back as Bucky lets out a soft huff of laughter.

Aw, yeah. Good to know someone appreciates his perfectly executed pop culture references.

Enter a star spangled blur from stage left as Steve comes barreling into view, plowing them down with the shield, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on his tail.

"You missed the rendezvous," He says simply, "I know the three of you have a thing goin' but you could'a called for back up."

Bucky give him the smallest of smiles, rising to his feet with Clint's bow in hand, "Got held up."

"Did you really have to shoot the guy Buck?" Steve asks, before turning his attention to Clint, "and why are you naked?"

"That's on this guy," Bucky replies proudly, slinging his free arm over Clint's shoulder, "I, for one, welcome the lack of clothing."

Steve and Natasha both shake their in heads in shared exasperation as the S.H.I.E.L.D agents secure their prisoners and take care of the clean up.

"Can we go home now please?" Clint whines, leaning into Bucky's side, "I wasn't kidding about that nap."

"They got a handle on this right?" Bucky asks, pulling Clint closer as side steps around Hydra McFuckface, "You heard the man, he needs a nap."

Steve waves them off, Natasha giving both of them a kiss on the cheek before standing at Steve's side to take up her second in command duties.

It's a short trip back to the quinjet, and Clint ignores the glances of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents milling about the property, happy to let Bucky murder-scowl their way without question.

Clint immediately heads for the stash of clothes they keep on hand for Hulk related missions, and happily shimmied his way into a pair of officially licensed Avengers sweatpants and a Stark Industries hoodie. He turns around to find Bucky frowning, staring down at his rifle, his lips twisted contemplatively.

"Hey Pumpkin, you okay?" Clint asks, slowly walking towards him until Bucky shakes out of the headspace he was caught in, nodding.

"I kinda freaked out earlier," Bucky admits, carefully placing his gun in an overhead rack, "Panicked, really. Nat hadda pull me back. Don't really wanna talk about it right now."

Clint bites his lip, waiting as Bucky drops down on a bench and Clint doesn't think twice to sit next to him, tucking himself firmly under his metal arm.

"I'm sorry."

Bucky looks at Clint incredulously, "For what Honey Bunny?"

"For, you know," Clint waves his hand, "Not taking the mob threat seriously, getting kidnapped and dragged into a convoluted Hydra trap. The usual."

Bucky holds out his hand, which Clint instantly takes, winding their fingers together, "You're obviously capable of handling yourself."

Clint smiles, "Yeah but still. I'm activating Buddy System protocols. Forever. No take backs."

Bucky relaxes, pulling their joined hands to his curved lips. Clint's sure that Bucky knows exactly what he's trying to say, without him having to say it.

"I love you, Honey Bunny."

"Love you too, Pumpkin."

"Oh, before I forget and she kills me," Bucky sighs, breaking the moment to fish his phone out of his pocket, making a few swipes with his flesh hand before handing it over.

Clint just raises an eyebrow, but takes the phone without question, holding it up to his ear as it rings.

"Barnes, I swear to _fuckin'_ god, you better be calling me to tell me he's alright or I'm going to fuckin' kill you too, I don't care if you give my wife a huge history boner, don't think I fuckin' won't."

Clint just smiles, relaxing into Bucky's side and says, "I'm not dead. Please don't kill my boyfriend."

"Oh my fuckin' god," Marla sighs with relief, "Don't _ever_ fuckin' do that to me again. Do you know how _worried_ I've been? Do you know how busy I've been?"

Clint laughs, "Everything alright on your end?"

"It's safe to come back to Brooklyn, if that's what ya askin'."

"Do I wanna know?"

"Best you don't," she replied, "Plausible deniability, opposite sides of the law and all that," she says, her voice softening, "Its good to hear your voice. Really, tell Bucky and Red that I owe 'em."

"Aw, Mars. I knew you loved me."

She laughs, real and genuine, "Yeah, yeah, you know it. But deadass, you pull this shit again and I will kill you myself."

"Can't make any promises, but I'll try."

A beat, and he can practically hear her roll her eyes, "So hey, I got someone here who wants to talk to you."

The phone starts to beep, alerting him to a video call, and when Clint pulls the phone away from his ear, Lucky's happy, dopey face comes into view.

And he doesn't wince, not even a little, when his broad smile breaks open his split lip.

"Hey boy!"

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that modern winterhawk AU I mentioned earlier? It's up and two chapters in, give it a look if a heavily tattooed Bucky Barnes and Clint Barton flirting thru music tickles your fancy.


End file.
